I\ 


^,^1  /t'      r/ft  l/x/l.  t/-^ 


J{r(u^    f-ltaJi 


i.^.f^ 


THE 


Poetical   Works 


OF 


JOHN    KEATS. 

iVITH  A    MEMOIR^ 
Bv  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW    YORK: 

R.  WORTHINGTOX,  PUBLISHER, 


r^r  rf  *  ^   w^r%<"  ■  g^'  ' 


5-J     '  -» 


•^1 


t   c  t 


*cc 


t     I      t    t 


«       «  *  > 


*  • 

•  •  • 


CONTENTS. 

— t — 

PAOI 

I  HE  Life  of  Keats 7 

Endymion:     a  Poetic  Romance 35 

Lamia I49 

Isahkixa,  or  the  Pot  ok  Basil:  A  Story,  from 

Boccaccio 170 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes ....  189 

H YPERK  )N 208 

Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Dedication  to  Leigli  Hunt,  Esq 230 

"I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  Hill" 2."?1 

Specimen  of  an  Induction  to  a  Poem 238 

Calidore :    A  Fraf^nient 240 

To  8ome  Ladies,  on  receivinjj  a  curious  Shell..  . .  24.') 
On  receiving  a  Copy  of  Verses  from  the  same 

Ladies 24t> 

To  248 

To  I  lope o.nO 

Imitation  of  Spenser •_>.")  1 

"Woman!  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain"..  2";-j 

Ode  to  a  Niglitinfrale 2' 4 

Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn 2.M) 

Ode  to  Psyche -i.'iS 

Fancy  . . ." 2(i0 

Ode 2f)2 

*  To  Autumn 2fi4 

Ode  on  Melancholy 265 

Lines  on  t  he  Mertiiaid  Tavern 266 

Robin  I  lood 267 

Sleep  and  Poetry 269 

Stanzas 28C 


45f;556 


(V  CONTENTS. 

Epistles.  paoi 

To  George  Felton  Mathew 285 

To  mv  Rrotlier  George 287 

To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke 292 

Sonnets. 

To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses 299 

To  my  Brother  George 300 

To 800 

'     "  0  Solitude !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell " 801 

"  How  many  Bards  gild  the  lapses  of  Time!  ".. .  8ul 

To  G.  A.  W 302 

Written  on  the  Day  that  Mr.  Leigh   Hunt  left 

Prison ". 302 

To  my  Brother 303 

Addressed  to  Haydon 303 

the  Same 3i:4 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 304 

On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an  early  Hour  305 

"  Keen  fitful  gusts  are  wiiispering  here  and  there  "  30^ 

"  To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent  " 306 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 3i)6 

To  Kosciusko 307 

"  Happv  is  England !  I  could  be  content  " 307 

The  Human  Seasons 308 

On  a  Picture  of  Leander 308 

To  Ailsa   Rock 309 

On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles 3i)9 

To  Haydon:  with  the  preceding  sonnet 3i0 

Written  in  the  Cottage  where  Bums  was  born. .   310 

To  the  Nile 312 

On  sitting  down  to  read  "  King  Lear  "  once  again  312 
"  Head  me  a  lesson,  Muse,  and  speak  it  loud  ".. .   313 

Posthumous  Poems. 

Fingal's   Cave 815 

To  816 

Hymn  to  Apollo 318 

Lines 319 

Song 320 

Faery  Song 321 

Lii  Belle  Uame  Sans  .Merci:    A  Ballad 322 

The  Eve  of  St.  Mark.     (Unfinished) 324 

To  Fanny 327 

Bonnets. 

"  Oh !  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve  " 830 


CONTEM'S. 


^ 


PAOE 


PoBTHCMous  Poems.    ( Omiinued.) 

To  a  Younp  Lady  wlio  srnt  me  a  Laurel  Crown  .    881 
"  After  <lark  vapnrs  have  oppress'd  our  jilains  " .    831 
Written  on  the  lilaiik  Space  nt'a  Leaf  at  tlie  V.nd 
ol'    Chaucer's    I'ale    of  "  Tlie  Klowre  and  the 

^'-e'■e'^ 832 

<)n  the  Sea 832 

On  Leiph  Himt's  Poem,  the  "  Storv  of  Rimini  '•.   833 
"When  I  liave  i'w.r:^  tiiat  I  may  cease  to  be  "  . . .   833 

'I'o  Homer " go^ 

Answer  to  a  Sonnet  by  J.  H.  Keynolds . .  . . . .  .  ' .'   S34 

To  J.  II.  Ke^'nokls ' 335 

To  Sleep 

On  Fame 

On  Fame 


835 

336 

836 

83Y 

"  Why  (lid  I  laugh  to-night  ?    No  voice  will  tell"  337 

On  a  I  'ream 

"If  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  becl.ain'd" 

"  I'he  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone  "  .  .,„„ 

"  I  cry  your  mercy  —  pi«5'  —  love  —  ay,  love  ". . !  339 

Ke»»t8's  hast  Sonnet g^A 


338 

.-.38 

.•;39 


THE  LIFE  OF  KEATS. 


There  are  few  poets  whose  works  contain  slight. 
er  hints  of  their   personal    history  than   tiiosi^   of 
Keats;  yet  there  are,  perhaps,  even  fewer,  whose 
real  lives,  or  rather  tlie  conditions  upon  which  they 
lived,  are  more  clearly  traceable  in  what  they  have 
written.     To  write  "the  life  of  a  man  was  formerly 
understood  to  mean  the  catalojriiinjj  and  placinsj:  of 
circumstances,  of  those  things  whicii  stood  about  the 
life  and  were  more  or  less  related  to  it,  but  were 
not  the  life  itself     But  Biograf)hy  from  day  to  day 
holds  dates  cheaper  and  facts  dearer.    A  man's  life 
(as  far  as  its  outward  events  are  concerned)  may 
be  made  for  him,  as  his  clothes  are  by  the  tailor,  of 
this  cut  or  that,  of  finer  or  coarser  material,  but  the 
gait  and  gesture  show  through,  and  give  to  trap- 
pings, in  themselves  characterless,  an  individuality 
that  belongs  to  the  man  himself.     It  is  those  essen- 
tial facts    which    underlie    the   life  and  make  the 
individual  man,  that  are  of  importance,  and  it  is 
the  cropping  out  of  these  upon   the  surface,  that 
gives  us  indications  by  which  to  judge  of  the  true 
nature    hidden  below.     Every  man  has  his  block 
given  him,  and  the  figure  he  cuts  will  depend  very 
much  upon  tlie  shape  of  that  — upon  the  knots  and 
twists  which  existed  in  it  from  the  beginning.     We 
were  designed  in  the  cradle,  perhaps  earlier,  and 
it  is  in  finding  out  this  design,  and    shaping  our- 
eelvea  to  it,  that  our  years  are  spent  wisely     It  is 


8  THE  LIFE    OF  KEATS. 

the  vain  endeavor  to  make  ourselves  what  we  are 
not  that  has  strewn  history  with  so  many  broken 
purposes  and  lives  left  in  the  rough. 

Keats  hardly  lived  long  enough  to  develop  a 
well-outlined  character,  for  that  results  commonly 
from  the  resistance  made  by  temperament  to  the 
many  influences  by  which  the  world,  as  it  may 
happen  then  to  be,  endeavors  to  mould  every  one 
in  its  own  image.  What  his  temperament  was  we 
can  see  clearly,  and  also  that  it  subordinated  itself 
more  and  more  to  the  discipline  of  art. 

John  Keats,  the  second  of  four  children,  like 
Chaucer,  was  a  Londoner,  but,  unlike  Cliaucer,  he 
was  certainly  not  of  gentle  blood.  Mr.  Monckton 
Milnes,  who  seems  to  have  had  a  kindly  wish  to 
create  liim  gentleman  by  brevet,  says  that  he  was 
"  born  in  the  upper  ranks  of  the  middle  class." 
This  shows  a  commendable  tenderness  for  the 
nerves  of  English  society,  and  reminds  one  of 
Northcote's  story  of  the  violin-player  Avho,  wishing 
to  couiplhnent  his  pupil,  George  III.,  divided  all 
fiddlers  into  three  classes,  those  who  could  not  play 
at  all,  those  who  played  very  badly,  and  those  who 
played  very  well,  assuring  his  majesty  that  he  had 
made  such  commendable  progress  as  to  have  al- 
ready reached  the  second  rank.  The  American 
public  will  perhaps  not  be  disturbed  by  knowing  that 
the  father  of  Keats  (as  Mr.  Milnes  had  told  us  in 
an  earlier  biography)  *'  was  employed  in  the  estab- 
lishment of  Mr.  Jennings,  the  proprietor  of  large 
livery-stables  on  the  Pavement  in  Moorfields,  near- 
ly opposite  the  entrance  into  Finsbury  Circus." 
80  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  so  bad;  ibr,  frst,  Mr. 
Jennings  was  a  proprietor;  second,  he  was  the 
proprietor  of  an  establishment;  third,  he  was  the 
proprietor  of  a  large  establishment;  mu\,  fourth, 
this  large  estabhshment  was  near'y  opposite  Fins- 


.u< 


,^'- 


THE   LIFE  OF  KEATS. 


bary  Circus,  —  a  name  which  vaguely  dilates  the 
imajrination  with  all  sorts  of  conjectured  grandeurs 
It  is  true,  Leigh  Hunt  asserts  that  Keats  "was  a 
little  too  sensitive  on  the  score  of  his  origin,"*  bia 
we  can  find  no  trace  of  such  a  feeling  either  in  his 
poetry,  or  in  such  of  his  letters  as  have  been  print- 
ed. We  suspect  the  fact  to  have  been  that  ho 
resented  with  becoming  pride  the  vulgar  Black- 
wood and  Quarterly  standard  which  measured 
genius  by  genealogies.  It  is  enough  that  his  poeti- 
cal pedigree  is  of  the  best,  tracing  through  Spenser 
to  Chaucer,  and  that  Pegasus  does  not  stand  at 
livery  even  in  the  largest  establishments  in  Moor- 
fields. 

As  well  as  we  can  make  out,  then,  the  father  of 
Keats  was  a  groom  in  tiie  service  of  Mr.  Jennings, 
and  married  the  daughter  of  his  master.  Tlius,  on 
the  mother's  side,  at  least,  we  find  a  grandfather ; 
on  the  fatlier's  tlicie  is  no  hint  of  such  an  ancestor, 
and  we  must  charitably  take  him  for  granted.  It 
is  of  more  importance  that  the  elder  Keats  was  a 
man  of  sense  and  energy,  and  that  his  wife  was  a 
lively  and  intelligent  woman,  who  hastened  the 
birth  of  the  poet  by  lier  passionate  devotion  to 
amusement,  bringing  him  into  the  world,  a  seven 
months' child,  on  the  29th  October,  1795,  instead^, 
of  the  29th  December,  as  would  have  been  con- 
ventionally proper.  Mr.  Millies  describes  her  as 
"  tall,  with  a  large  oval  face,  and  a  somewhat  satur- 
nine demeanor."!  Tiiis  last  circumstance  does  not 
agree  very  well  witli  what  he  liad  just  before  told 
us  of  her  liveliness  ;  but  lie  consoles  us  by  adding 
that  "  she  succeeded,  however,  in  inspiring  her 
children  with  tlie  prof'oundest  affection."  This  Avas 
particularly  true  of  John,  wlio  once,  when  between 
lour   and   five  years   old,    mounted    guard  at  her 

•  Ilunt's  Autobio^nnhi/,  (American  edition,)  vol.  11.  p.  88 
^  Miines's  Life  of  /i^a/.«,  (American  edition,)  p.  15. 


10  THE  LIFE    OF  KEATS. 

chamber-door  with  an  old  sword,  when  she  was 
ill,  and  the  doctor  had  ordered  her  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed.* 

In  1804,  Keats  being  in  his  ninth  year,  his  fa- 
ther was  killed  by  a  fall  from  liis  horse.  His 
mother  seems  to  have  been  ambitious  for  her  chil- 
dren, and  there  was  some  talk  of  sending  John  to 
Harrow.  Fortunately  this  plan  was  thought  too 
expensive,  and  he  was  sent  instead  to  the'^School 
of  Mr.  Clarke  at  Enfield  with  his  brotliers.  A 
maternal  uncle,  wlio  iiad  distinguislied  liimself  by 
his  courage  under  Duncan  at  Camperdown,  was 
the  hero  of  his  nephews,  and  they  went  to  school 
resolved  to  maintain  the  family  reputation  for  cour- 
age. John  was  always  fighting,  and  was  cliiefly 
noted  among  his  school-fellows  as  a  stran"-e  com- 
pound of  pluck  and  sensibility.  He  attacked  an 
usher  who  had  boxed  his  brother's  ears,  and  when 
his  mother  died,  in  1810,  was  moodily  inconsolable, 
(in  spite,  it  seems,  of  her  "saturnine  demeanor,") 
hiding  himself  for  several  days  in  a  nook  under  the 
master's  desk,  and  refusing  all  comfort  from  teacher 
or  friend. 

He  was  popular  at  school,  as  boys  of  spirit  al- 
ways are,  and  impi-essed  his  companions  with  a 
sense  of  his  power.  They  thought  he  would  one 
day  be  a  famous  soldier.  This  may  have  been  ow- 
ing to  the  stories  he  told  them  of  the  heroic  uncle, 
whose  deeds,  we  may  be  sure,  were  properly  fa- 
moused  by  the  boy  Homer,  and  whom  they  proba- 
bly took  for  an  admiral  at  the  least,  as  it  would  have 
been  well  for  Keats's  literary  prosperity  if  he  had 
been.  At  any  rate,  they  thought  John  would  be 
a  great  man,  which  is  the  main  thing,  for  the  pub- 
lic opinion  of  the  playground  is  truer  and  more  dis- 
cerning  than  that  of  the  world;  and  if  you  tell  us 

*  Haydon  tells  the  story  differently,  but  we  think  Mr.  Milnes'f 

rersion  the  best. 


THE   LIFE    OF  KEATS.  U 

what  the  boy  was,  we  will  toll  you  wliat  tlie  man 
lon^js  to  be,  however  lie  may  be  repressed  by  ne- 
cessity or  fear  of  the  police  re|)Orts. 

Mr.  Millies  has  failed  to  discover  anythiii":  else 
especially  worthy  of  record  in  the  scliool-life  of 
Keats.  He  translated  the  twelve  books  of  the 
iEneid,  read  Kobinson  Crusoe  and  the  Incas  of 
Peru,  and  looked  into  Shakspcare.  He  left  school 
in  1810,  wilii  little  I^atin  and  no  Greek,  but  he  had 
studied  Spence's  Poiynietis,  Tooke's  Pantheon,  and 
Lempri^re's  Dictionary,  and  kiU!W  jrods,  nymphs, 
and  heroes,  which  were  quite  as  good  company  as 
aorists  and  aspirates.  It  is  pleasant  to  fancy  the 
horror  of  those  respectable  writers  if  their  pages 
could  suddenly  have  become  alive  under  their  pens 
with  all  that  the  young  poet  saw  in  them.* 

On  leaving  school,  he  was  apprenticed  for  five 
years  to  a  surgeon  at  Edmonton.  His  master  was 
a  Mr.  Hammond,  "of  some  eminence"  in  his  pro- 
fession, as  IMr.  Milnes  takes  care  to  assure  us.  The 
place  was  of  more  importance  than  the  master,  for 
Its  neighborhood  to  Enfield  enabled  him  to  keep 
up  his  intimacy  with  the  family  of  his  former 
teacher,  Mr.  Clarke,  and  to  borrow  books  of  them. 

•  There  is  always  some  one  willing  to  make  himself  a  sort  of 
accessory  after  the  fact  in  any  success  ;  always  an  old  woman  or 
two,  rejijy  to  remember  omeus  of  all  quantities  and  quahties  in 
the  childhood  of  persons  who  have  become  distinguished.  Ac- 
cordingly, a  certain  "Mrs.  Onilty  of  Craven  Street,  Kin.sbury," 
assures  Mr.  George  Ke;its,  when  he  tells  lur  tliat  .lolin  is  deter- 
mined to  be  a  poet,  '•  that  this  wius  very  odd,  beciuse  when  he 
could  just  speak,  instead  of  answering  questions  put  to  him,  he 
would  always  make  a  rliynie  to  the  bust  word  people  sjiid,  and 
then  laugh."  The  early  histories  of  lieroes,  like  tho.se  of  na- 
tions, are  always  more  or  less  m,\  thical,  and  we  give  the  siory  for 
what  it  is  worth.  Uoubtle.ss  there  is  a  gle.im  of  intelligence  in  it, 
for  the  old  lady  pronounces  it  odd  that  any  one  should  determine 
to  be  a  poet,  and  seems  to  have  wished  to  hint  that  the  matter 
Wivs  determined  earlier  and  by  a  higher  disposing  power.  There 
are  few  children  who  do  not  .soon  discover  the  charm  of  rhyme, 
and  perhaps  fewer  who  can  wsist  making  fun  of  the  Mrs.  Oraftyg 
of  Craven  Street,  Finsbury,  when  they  have  the  chance.  See 
Uavdon's  Au'nbiograp/iy,  rdt.  i.  p.  3C1. 


12  THE  LIFE   OF  KEATS. 

In  1812,  when  be  was  in  his  seventeenth  year 
Mr.  Charles  Cowden  Clarice  lent  him  the  Faerie 
Queene.  Nothing  that  is  told  of  Orplreus  oi 
Amphion  is  more  wonderful  than  this  miracle  of 
Spenser's,  transforniinii;  a  surgeon's  apprentice  into 
a  great  poet.  Keats  learned  at  once  the  secret  of 
his  birth,  and  henceforward  his  indentures  ran  to 
Apollo  instead  of  Mr.  Hammond.  Thus  could  the 
Muse  defend  her  son.  It  is  the  old  story,  —  the 
lost  heir  discovered  by  his  aptitude  for  what  is 
gentle  and  knightly. 

Before  long  we  find  him  studying  Chaucer,  then 
Shakspeare,  and  afterward  Milton.  That  he  read 
wisely,  his  comments  on  the  Paradise  Lost  are 
enough  to  prove.  He  now  also  commenced  poet 
himself,  but  does  not  ap]jear  to  have  neglected  the 
study  of  his  profession.  He  was  a  youth  of  energy 
and  purpose,  and,  though  he  no  doubt  penned 
many  a  stanza  when  he  should  have  been  anato- 
mizing, and  walked  the  hospitals  accomjianied  by 
the  early  gods,  nevertheless  passed  a  very  credita- 
ble examination  in  1817.  In  the  spring  of  this 
year,  also,  he  prepared  to  take  his  first  degree  as 
poet,  and  accordingly  published  a  small  volume 
containing  a  selection  of  his  earlier  essays  in  verse. 
It  attracted  little  attention,  and  the  rest  of  this 
year  seems  to  have  been  occupied  with  a  journey 
on  foot  in  Scotland,  and  the  composition  of  En- 
dymion,  which  was  published  in  1818.  Milton's 
Tetrachordon  was  not  better  abused  ;  but  Milton's 
assailants  were  unorganized,  and  were  obliged  each 
to  print  and  pay  for  liis  own  dingy  little  quarto, 
trusting  to  the  natural  laws  of  demand  and  supply 
to  furnish  him  with  readers.  Keats  was  arraigned 
by  the  constituted  authorities  of  literary  justice. 
They  might  be,  nay,  they  were  Jefirieses  and 
Scroggses,  but  the  sentence  was  published,  and  the 
penalty  inflicted  before  all  Eu£;land.     Tlie  difl'er- 


THE  LIFE  OF  KEATS.  13 

ence  between  his  fortune  and  Milton's  was  that  be- 
tween being  pelted  by  a  mob  of  personal  enemies, 
and  being  set  in  the  pillory.  In  the  first  case,  the 
annoyance  brushes  off  mostly  with  the  mud  ;  in 
the  last,  there  is  no  sol  u-o  but  tho  consciousness  of 
sufierin"  in  a  great  cause.  This  solace,  to  a  certain 
extent,  Keats  had  ;  for  his  amliition  was  noble,  and 
he  hoped  not  to  make  a  great  reputation,  but  to  be 
a  great  poet.  Haydon  says  that  Wordsworth  and 
Keats  were  the  only  men  he  had  ever  seen  who 
looked  conscioHS  of  a  lofty  ])urpose. 

It  is  curious  that  men  should  resent  more  fiercely 
what  they  suspect  to  be  good  verses,  than  what 
they  know  to  be  bad  morals.  Is  it  because  they 
feel  tlK>mselves  incapable  of  the  one,  and  not  of  the 
other?  However  it  be,  the  best  poetry  has  been 
the  most  savagely  attacked,  and  men  who  scrupu- 
lously practised  the  Ten  Commandments  as  if  there 
were  never  a  not  in  any  of  them,  felt  every  senti- 
ment of  their  better  nature  outraged  by  the  Lyrical 
Ballads.  It  is  idle  to  attempt  to  show  that  Keats 
did  not  suflTer  keenly  from  the  vulgarities  of  Black- 
wood and  the  Quarterly.  lie  sull'ered  in  propor- 
tion as  his  ideal  was  high,  ani  he  was  conscious  of 
falling  below  it.     In  England,  especially,  it  is  not 

Eleasant  to  be  ridiculous,  even  if  you  are  a.  lord  ; 
ut  to  be  ridiculous  and  an  apothecary  at  the  same 
time,  is  arlmost  as  bad  as  it  was  formerly  to  be  ex- 
communicated. A  priori^  there  was  something 
absurd  in  poetry  written  by  the  son  of  an  assistant 
in  tlie  livery-stables  of  Mr.  Jennings,  even  though 
they  were  an  establishment,  and  a  large  establish- 
ment, and  nearly  o[)posite  Finsbury  Circus.  Mr. 
Gifl'ord,  the  ex-cobbler,  thought  so  in  the  Quar« 
terly,  and  Mr.  Terry,  the  actor,*  thought  so  even 
more  distinctly  in  ISlackwood,  bidding  the  young 

•  ll.i/doii  ( Aittohlographi/,  vol.  i.  p.  379)  says  that  lie  "  ttrony 
\i-  suspcrf.s  '•  TiTrv  to  have  written  the  articles  In  Blackwood- 


14  TEE  LIFE    OF  KEATS. 

apothecary  "  back  to  his  gallipots ! "  It  is  nol 
pleasant  to  be  talked  down  upon  by  your  inferiors 
who  happen  to  have  the  advantage  of  position,  nor 
to  be  drenched  with  ditch-water,  though  you  know 
it  to  be  thrown  by  a  scullion  in  a  garret. 

Keats,  as  his  was  a  temperament  in  which  sensi- 
bility was  excessive,  could  not  but  be  galled  by 
this  treatment.  He  was  galled  the  more  that  he 
was  also  a  man  of  strong  sense,  and  capable  of 
understanding  clearly  how  hard  it  is  to  make  men 
acknowledge  solid  value  in  a  person  wliom  they 
have  once  heartily  laughed  at.  Reputation  is  in 
itself  only  a  farthing-candle,  of  wavering  and  un- 
certain flame,  and  easily  blown  out,  but  it  is  the 
light  by  which  the  world  looks  for  and  finds  merit. 
Keats  longed  for  fame,  but  longed  above  all  to 
deserve  it.  Thrilling  with  the  electric  touch  of 
sacred  leaves,  he  saw  in  vision,  like  Dante,  that 
small  procession  of  the  elder  poets  to  which  only 
elect  centuries  can  add  another  laurelled  head. 
Might  he,  too,  deserve  from  posterity  the  love  and 
reverence  which  he  paid  to  those  antique  glories  ? 

.-^It  was  no  unworthy  ambition,  but  everything  was 
against  him,  —  birth,  health,  even  fi-iends,  since  it 
was  partly  on  their  account  that  he  was  sneered  at. 

-^^His  very  name  stood  in  his  way,  for  Fame  lovec 
best  such  syllables  as  are  sweet  and  sonorous  on  the 
tongue,  like  Spenserian,  Shakspearian.  In  spite  of 
Juliet,  there  is  a  great  deal  in  names,  and  when  the 
fairies  come  with  their  gifts  to  the  cradle  of  the 
selected  child,  let  one,  wiser  than  the  rest,  chooee 
a  name  for  him  from  which  well-sounding  deriva- 
tives can  be  made,  and  best  of  all  with  a  termina- 
tion in  on.  Men  judge  the  current  coin  of  opinion 
by  the  ring,  and  are  readier  to  take  without  ques 
tion  whatever  is  Platonic,  Baconian,  Newtonian, 
Johnsonian.  Washingtonian,  JeflTersonian,  Napol- 
eonic, and  all  the  rest.     You  cannot  make  a  good 


THE  LIFE  OF  KEATS.  U 

Adjective  out  of  Kcata,  —  the  more  pity,  —  an(l  to 
say  a  thinp:  is  Keatsy  is  to  contemn  it.  Fate  likes 
6nt^  names. 

Haydon  tells  us  that  Keats  was  very  much  de- 
pressed by  the  fortunes  of  his  book.  This  was  nat- 
ural enoujrh,  but  he  took  it  all  in  a  manly  way,  and 
determined  to  revcnjie  himself  by  writins;  better 
poetry.  He  knew  that  activity,  and  not  despon- 
dency, is  the  true  counterpoise  to  misfortune. 
Haydon  is  sure  of  the  chanjxe  in  his  spirits,  because 
he  would  come  to  the  paintinji-ronm  and  sit  silent 
for  hours.  But  we  rather  think  that  tlie  conversa- 
tion, where  Mr.  llaydun  was,  resembled  that  in  a 
youn2  author's  first  play,  where  the  other  inter- 
locutors are  only  brought  in  as  convenient  points 
for  the  hero  to  hitch  the  interminable  web  of  his 
monologue  on.  Besides,  Keats  had  been  continu- 
ing his  education  this  year,  by  a  course  of  Elgin 
marbles  and  pictures  by  the  great  Italians,  and 
might  very  naturally  have  found  little  to  say  about 
Mr.  Haydnn's  extensive  works,  which  he  would 
have  cared  to  hear.  Mr.  Mllnes,  on  the  other 
hand,  in  his  eagerness  to  prove  that  Keats  was  not 
killed  by  the  article  in  the  Quarterly,  is  carried  toe 
far  toward  the  opposite  extreme,  and  more  than 
hints  that  he  was  not  even  hurt  by  it.  This  would 
have  been  true  of  AVordsworth,  who,  by  a  constant 
companionship  with  mountains,  had  accpiired  some- 
thing of  their  manners,  but  was  simply  impossible 
to  a  man  of  Keats's  temperament. 

On  the  whole,  perhaps,  we  need  not  respect 
Keats  the  less  for  having  been  gifted  with  sensibil- 
ity, and  may  even  say  what  we  believe  to  be  true, 
that  his  health  was  injured  by  the  failure  of  his 
book.  A  man  cannot  have  a  sensuous  nature  and 
be  pachydermatous  at  the  same  time ;  and  if  he  be 
imaginative  as  well  as  sensuous,  he  sufl'ers  just  in 
proportion  to  the  amount  of  his  imagination.     It  is 


<^ 


[6  THE  LIFE   OF  KEATS. 

perfectly  true  that  what  we  call  the  world,  in  thes* 
affairs,  is  nothing  more  than  a  mere  Brocken  spec- 
tre, the  projected  shadow  of  ourselves ;  but  as  long 
as  we  do  not  know  it,  it  is  a  very  passable  giant 
We  are  not  witliout  experience  of  natures  so  purely 
intellectual  that  their  bodies  had  no  more  concern 
in  their  mental  doings  and  sufferings  than  a  house 
has  with  the  good  or  ill  fortune  of  its  occupant. 
But  poets  are  not  built  on  this  plan,  and  especially 
poets  like  Keats,  in  whom  the  moral  seems  to  have 
so  perfectly  interfused  the  physical  man,  that  you 
might  almost  say  he  coul<l  feel  sorrow  with  his 
hands,  so  truly  did  his  body,  like  that  of  Donne's 
mistress,  think  and  remember  and  forebode.  The 
healthiest  poet  of  whom  our  civilization  has  been 
capable  says  that  when  he  beholds 

"  desert  a  beggar  born, 

And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority," 

(alluding,  plainly  enough,  to  the  Giffords  of  his 
day,) 

"  And  simple  truth  miscalled  simplicity," 

(as  it  was  long  afterward  in  Wordsworth's  case,) 

"  And  Captive  Good  attending  Captain  111," 

that  then  even  he,  the  poet  to  whom  of  all  others 
life  seems  to  have  been  dearest,  as  it  was  also  the 
fullest  of  enjoyment,  "tired  of  all  these,"  had  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  cry  for  "  restful  Death." 

Keats,  as  we  have  said,  accepted  his  ill  fortune 
courageously.  On  the  9t!i  of  October,  1818,  he 
writes  to  his  publisher,  Llr.  Ilessey,  "  I  cannot  but 
feel  indebted  to  those  gentlemen  who  have  taken 
my  part.  As  for  the  rest,  I  begin  to  get  acquainted 
Nith  my  own  strength  and  weakness.  Praise  or 
/lame  has  but  a  momentary  effect  on  the  man 
whoae  love  of  beauty  in  the  abstract  makes  him  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  KEATS.  17 

(Wvere  critic  of  his  own  works.  My  own  domestic 
criticism  has  piven  me  pain  without  comparison  be- 
yond what  '  Blackwood  '  or  the  '  Qiaartcrly  '  could 
inflict :  and  also,  when  I  feel  I  am  ripjht,  no  exter- 
nal praise  can  give  me  such  a  glow  as  my  own  soli- 
tary reperception  and  ratification  of  what  is  fine. 
J.  S.  is  perfectly  right  in  regard  to  '  the  slipshod 
Endymion.'  That  it  is  so  is  no  fault  of  mine. 
No  !  though  it  may  sound  a  little  paradoxical,  it  is 
as  good  as  I  had  power  to  make  it  by  myself.  Had 
I  been  nervous  about  its  being  a  perfect  piece,  and 
with  that  view  asked  advice  and  trembled  over 
every  page,  it  would  not  have  been  written  ;  for  it 
is  not  m  my  nature  to  fumble.  I  will  write  inde- 
pendently. I  have  written  independently  without 
judgment.  I  may  write  independently  and  with 
jwh/ment,  hereafter.  The  Genius  of  Poetry  must 
work  out  its  own  salvation  in  a  man.  It  cannot  be 
matured  by  law  and  precept,  but  by  sensation  and 
■watchfulness  in  itself  That  which  "is  creative  must 
create  it.self.  In  '  Endymion  '  I  leaped  headlong 
into  the  sea,  and  thereby  have  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  sourvdings,  the  quicksands,  and 
the  rocks,  than  if  I  had  stayed  upon  the  green 
shore,  and  piped  a  silly  pipe,  and  took  tea  and 
comfortable  advice.  I  was  never  afraid  of  fail- 
ure ;  for  T  would  sooner  fail  than  not  be  among  the 
greatest. '  * 

Tiiis  was  undoubtedly  true,  and  it  was  naturally 
the  side  which  a  large-minded  person  would  dis- 
play to  a  friend.  This  is  what  he  thought ;  but 
whether  it  was  what  ho  felt,  we  think  doubtful. 
^Ve  look  upon  it  rather  as  one  of  the  phenomena 
of  that  multanimous  nature  of  the  poet,  which  makes 
him  for  the  moment  that  which  he  has  an  intellect- 
ual perception  of.  Elsewhere  be  says  something 
which  seems  to  hint  at  the  true  state  of  the  case 

•  Mllnes's  Life  and  LdiUrM  of  KeaU,  pp.  146-6 
2 


18  THE  LIFE  OF  KEATS. 

"I  must  think  that  difficulties  nerve  the  spiiil 
of  a  man  :  they  make  our  prime  objects  a  refuge  as 
well  as  a  passion."  One  cannot  help  contra:?ting 
Keats  with  Wordsworth  ;  the  one  altojiether  poet, 
the  other  essentially  a  Wordsworth  with  the  poetic 
faculty  added  ;  the  one  shifting  from  form  to  form, 
and  from  style  to  style,  and  pouring  his  hot  throb- 
bing life  into  every  mould  ;  the  other  remaining  al- 
ways the  individual,  producing  works,  and  not  so 
much  living  in  his  poems  as  memorially  recording 
his  life  in  them.  \Vhen  Wordsworth  alludes  to  the 
foolish  criticisms  on  his  writings,  ho  speaks  serenely 
V/  and  generously  of  Wordsworth  the  poet,  as  if  he 
were  an  unbiassed  third  person,  who  takes  up  the 
argument  merely  in  the  interest  of  literature.  He 
towers  into  a  bald  egotism  which  is  quite  above  and 
beyond  selfishness.  Poesy  was  his  employment ;  it 
was  Keats's  very  existence ;  and  he  felt  the  rough 
treatment  of  his  verses  as  if  it  had  been  the  wound- 
ing of  a  limb.  To  Wordsworth,  composing  was  a 
healthy  exercise ;  his  slow  pulse  and  unimpressible 
nature  gave  him  assurance  of  a  life  so  lonji  that  he 
could  wait ;  and  when  we  read  his  poems  we  should 
never  suspect  the  existence  in  him  of  any  sense  but 
that  of  observation,  as  if  Wordsworth  tlie  poet  were 
only  a  great  sleepless  eye,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  the  distributer  of  stamps,  as  a  rever- 
3ntial  scribe  and  Baruch.  But  every  one  of  Keats's 
poems  was  a  sacrifice  of  vitality ;  a  virtue  went 
away  from  him  into  every  one  of  them ;  even  yet, 
A3  we  turn  the  leaves,  they  seem  to  warm  and  thrill 
our  fingers  with  the  flush  of  his  fine  senses,  and 
the  flutter  of  his  electrical  nerves,  and  we  do  not 
wonder  he  felt  that  what  he  did  was  to  bo  done 
swiftly. 

In  the  mean  time,  his  younger  brother  languished 

'and  died ;  his  ekler  seems  to  have  been  in  some 

way  unfortunate,  and  had  gone  to  America,  and 


THE  LIFE   OF  KEATS.  If 

Reat9  himself  showed  symptoms  of  the  hereditarj 
disease  wliicli  caused  his  death  at  last.  It  is  in 
October,  1818,  that  we  fiiKi  the  first  allusions  to  a 
passion,  which  was,  ere  lon^,  to  consume  him.  It 
IS  plain  enough  beforehand,  that  those  were  not 
moral  or  mental  graces  that  should  attract  a  man 
like  Keats.  His  intellect  was  satisfied  and  ab- 
sorbed by  his  art,  his  books,  and  his  friends,  lie 
could  have  companionship  and  appreciation  from 
men  ;  what  he  craved  of  woman  was  only  repose. 
That  luxurious  nature,  which  would  have  tossed 
uneasily  on  a  crumpled  rose-leaf,  must  have  some- 
thing softer  to  rest  upon  than  intellect,  something 
less  ethereal  than  culture.  It  was  his  body  that 
deeded  to  have  its  equilibrium  restored,  the  waste 
of  his  nervous  energy  that  must  be  repaired  by 
deep  draughts  of  the  overfiowing  life  and  drowsy 
tropical  force  of  an  abundant  and  healthily-poised 
womanhood.  \Vriting  to  his  sister-in-law,  he  saya 
of  this  nameless  person  :  "  She  is  not  a  Cleopatra, 
but  is,  at  least,  a  Charmian  ;  she  has  a  rich  eastern 
look  ;  she  has  fine  eyes,  and  fine  manners.  When 
she  comes  into  a  room,  she  makes  the  same  impres- 
sion as  the  beauty  of  a  leo{)ardess.  She  is  too  fine 
and  loo  conscious  of  lierSeTf  to  repulse  any  man 
who  may  adilress  her.  From  habit,  she  thinks  that 
nothing  particular.  I  always  find  myself  at  ease 
with  such  a  woman  ;  the  picture  before  me  always 
gives  me  a  life  and  animation  which  I  cannot  pos- 
sibly ttiel  with  anything  inferior.  I  am  at  such 
times  too  much  occupied  in' admiring,  to  be  awk- 
ward, or  in  a  tremble.  I  forget  myself  entirely, 
because^I  live  in  her.  You  will  by  this  time  think 
ram  fn  love  with  her,  so,  before  I  go  any  farther,  I 
will  tell  you  that  I  am  not.  She  kept  me  awake 
one  night,  as  a  tune  of  Mozart's  might  do.  I  speak 
of  the  thing  as  a  pastime  and  an  amusement,  than 
which  I  can  feel  uono  deeper  than  a  conversatioa 


<i:- 


20  TEE  LIFE  OF  KEATS. 

with  an  imperial  woman,  tb6  very  yes  and  no  of 

whose  life  is  to  me  a  baoquet I  like  her 

and  her  like,  because  one  has  no  sensation  ;  what 

we    both    are,    is    taken   for    granted She 

walks  across  a  room  in  such  a  manner  that  a 
man  is  drawn   toward  her  with  magnetic    power. 

I    believe,    though,    she    has    faults,    the 

same  as  a  Cleopatra  or  a  Charmian  might  have 
had.  Yet  she  is  a  fine  thing,  speaking  in  a  worldly 
way ;  for  there  are  two  distinct  tempers  of  mind 
in  which  we  judge  of  things :  the  worldly,  theat- 
rical, and  pantomimical ;  and  the  unearthly,  spirit- 
ual, and  ethereal.  In  the  former,  Bonaparte,  Lord 
Byron,  and  this  Charmian  hold  the  first  place  in 
our  minds ;  in  the  latter,  John  Howard,  Bishop 
Hooker,  rocking  his  child's  cradle,  and  you,  my 
dear  sister,  are  the  conquering  feelings.  As  a  man 
of  the  world,  I  love  the  rich  talk  of  a  Charmian ; 
as  an  eternal  being,  I  love  the  thought  of  you.  I 
should  like  her  to  ruin  me,  and  I  should  like  you 
to  save  me." 

It  is  pleasant  always  to  see  Love  hiding  his  head 
with  such  pains,  while  his  whole  body  is  so  clearly 
visible,  as  in  this  extract.  This  lady,  it  seems,  is 
not  a  Cleopatra,  only  a  Charmian ;  but  presently 
we  find  that  she  is  imperial.  He  does  not  love  her, 
^:^  but  he  would  just  like  to  be  ruined  by  her,  nothing 
more.  This  glimpse  of  her,  with  her  leopardess 
beauty,  crossing  the  room  and  drawing  men  after 
her  magnetically,  is  all  we  have.  She  seems  to 
have  been  still  living  in  1848,  and,  as  Mr.  Milnes 
tells  us,  kept  the  memory  of  the  poet  sacred.  "  She 
is  an  East  Indian,"  Keats  says,  "and  ought  to 
be  her  grandfather's  heir."  Her  name  we  do  not 
know. 

Between  this  time  and  the  spring  of  1820,  he 
seems  to  have  worked  assiduously.  Of  course, 
worldly  success  was  of  more  importance  than  ever. 


THE  LIFE  OF    KEATS.  21 

He  bepan  Hyperion,  but  had  given  it  up  in  Septem- 
ber, 1819,  because,  as  lie  said,  "  there  were  too  nianj' 
Miltonic  inversions  in  it."  jje  wrote  Lamia  aftej 
an  attentive  study  ori^)rvden^§__i£i:*ifi«ailofi.  Tliis 
period  also  produced  the  Kveof  Si.  Agnes,  Isabella, 
and  the  odes  to  {he  Nif/htingale,  and  to  the  Grecian 
Urn.  lie  studied  Italian,  read  Ariosto,  and  wrote 
part  of  a  humorous  poem,  The  Cap  and  Bells.  He 
tried  his  hand  at  trafiedy,  and  Mr.  Milnes  has  pub- 
lished among  his  "  Remains,"  Olho  the  Great,  and 
all  that  was  ever  written  of  King  Ste/ihen.  We 
think  he  did  unwisely,  for  a  biogra[)h('r  is  hardly 
called  upon  to  show  how  ill  his  hiographee  could  do 
anything. 

In  the  winter  of  1820,  he  was  chilled  in  riding 
on  the  top  of  a  stage-coach,  and  cam-e  home  in  a 
state  of  feverish  excitement.  He  was  persuaxled  to 
go  to  bed,  and  in  getting  between  the  cold  sheets, 
coughed  slightly.  "  That  is  blood  in  my  mouth," 
he  said.  "Bring  me  the  candle;  let  me  see  this 
blood."  It  was  of  a  brilliant  red,  and  his  medical 
knowledge  enabled  him  to  interpret  the  augury. 
Those  narcotic  odors  that  seem  to  breathe  seaward 
and  steep  in  repose  the  senses  of  the  voyager  who 
is  drifting  toward  the  shore  of  the  mysterious  Other 
World,  aj)peared  to  envelop  him,  and,  looking 
up  with  sudden  calmness,  he  said,  "  I  know  the 
color  of  that  blood  ;  it  is  arterial  blood  ;  I  cannot 
be  deceived  in  that  color.  That  drop  is  my  death 
warrant ;  I  must  die." 

There  was  a  slight  rally  during  the  .summer  of 
that  year,  but  toward  autumn  he  grew  worse  again, 
and  it  was  decided  that  he  should  go  to  Italy.  He 
was  accompanied  thither  by  his  friend,  Mr.  Severn, 
an  artist.  Alter  embai'king,  Ik;  wrote  to  his  friend, 
Mr.  Brown.  We  give  a  part  of  this  letter,  which 
is  so  deeply  tragic  that  the  sentences  we  take 
almost  seem  to  break  away  from  th<^  rest  with  a 


22  TUE  LIFE    OF  KEATS. 

cry  of  anguish,  like  the  branchei  of  Dante's  lamen 

table  wood. 

"  1  wi.sh  to  write  on  subjects  that  will  not  agitati! 
me  much.  There  is  one  1  must  mention  and  have 
done  with  it.  Even  if  my  body  would  recover  of 
itself,  this  would  prevent  it.  The  very  thing  which 
1  want  to  live  most  lor  will  be  a  great  occasion  of 
my  death.  I  cannot  help  it.  Who  can  help  it  V 
Were  I  in  healtli  it  would  make  ine  ill,  and  how 
can  I  bear  it  in  my  state  ?  I  dare  say  you  will  be 
able  to  guess  on  what  subject  I  am  harping  :  you 
know  what  was  my  greatest  pain  during  the  first 
part  of  my  illness  at  your  house.     1  wish  for  death 

r^  every  ila^^and  night  to  deliver  me^rom  tiie^jiains,' 
and_jl'^''  Tlvtsh  deanr~awav,  for^detxth  jvould 
destroy  even  those  p"aTil5;  AVtricTi  are  better~tEan~ 
nothing.  Land  and  sea,  wealvuess  andTTecTine,  are 
great  separatois,  but  Death  is  the  great  divorcer 
forever.  When  tlie  pang  of  this  thought  has 
passeti  through  my  mind,  I  may  say  the  bitterness 
of  death  is  passed.  I  often  wish  for  you,  that  you 
iniglit  (latter  me  with  the  best.  I  think,  witltoul 
my  niuniioniiig    it,  tor    my  sake,  you  would   be  a 

friend  to  Miss when  1  am   dead.     You   think 

she  has  many  faults,  but  ibr  my  sake  think  she  has 
not  one.  It  there  is  an\tliing  you  can  do  tor  her 
by  word  or  tleed,  I  know  you  will  do  it.  I  am  in 
a   state   at    present   in   which   woman,    merely   aa 

K->    woman,  can  have  no  more   power  over   me    than 
stocks   and   stones,  and  yet  the  differen  :e  of  my 

sensations  with  respect  to  Miss and  my  sister 

is  amazing  :  the  one  seems  to  absorb  the  otiier  to 
a  degree  incredible.  I  seldom  think  of  my  brother 
and   sister   in    America ;    the   thought   of   leaving 

Miss is    beyond    everything    hgrrible,  —  tlie 

sense  of  daikness  coming  over  me,  —  I  eternally 
see  her  figure  eternally  vanishing ;  some  of  thn 
phrases  she  was  in  the  habit  of  using  during  my 


THE  LIFE    OF  KEATS.  23 

last  nursing  at  Wentworth  Place  ring  in  my  ears 
Is  there  aiiotlier  life?  Shall  I  awake  and  find  all 
this  a  dream  ?  There  must  be,  —  we  cannot  be 
created  lor  This  sort  of  suH'eriiig." 

To  the  sam-e  friend  he  writes  again  from  Naples, 
(1st  November,  1820)  : 

"  The  persuasion  that  I  shall  see  her  no  more 
will  kill  me.  My  dear  Brown,  I  should  have  had^^ 
her  when  I  was  in  healih,  and  I  should  have  re- 
mained well.  I  can  bear  to  die  ;  I  cannot  bear 
to  leave  her.  Oh,  God  1  God  !  God  !  Everything 
I  have  in  my  trunks  that  reminds  me  of  her 
goes  through  me  like  a  spear.  The  silk  lining  she 
put  in  my  travelling-cap  scalds  my  head.  My 
imagination  is  horribly  vivid  about  her;  I  see  her 
—  1  hear  her.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  of 
sufficient  interest  to  divert  me  from  her  a  moment. 
This  was  the  case  when  I  was  in  f^ngland  ;  I  can- 
Bot  recollect,  without  shuddering,  the  time  that  I 
was  a  prisoner  at  Hunt's,  and  used  to  keep  my  eyes 
fi.\ed  on  Ilampstead  all  day.  Then  there  was  a 
good  hope  of  seeing  her  again  —  Now  !  —  O  that  I 
could  be  buried  near  where  she  lives  !  I  am  afraid 
to  write  to  her  —  to  receive  a  letter  from  her  —  to 
see  her  handwriting  would  break  my  heart  —  Even 
to  hear  of  her  anyhow,  to  see  her  name  written, 
would  be  more  than  I  can  bear.  My  dear  Brown, 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  Where  can  I  look  for  consola- 
tion or  ease  ?  If  I  had  any  chance  of  recovery, 
this  passion  would  kill  me.  Indeed,  through  the 
whole  of  my  illness,  both  at  your  house  and  at 
Kentish  Town,  this  fever  has  never  ceased  wearing 
me  out." 

The  two  friends  went  almost  immediately  from 
Naples  to  Rome,  where  Keats  was  treated  with  great 
kindness  by  the  distinguished  physician.  Dr.  (after- 
ward Sir  James)  Clark.*     But  there  was  no  hope 

*  The  lodgiog  of  Eeats  was  on  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  In  tlu 


'24  THE  LIFE  OF  RE  ATS. 

from  the  first.  His  disease  was  beyond  remedy,  as 
his  heart  was  beyond  comfort.  The  very  fact  that 
life  miffht  be  happy  deepened  his  despair.  lU 
might  not  have  sunk  so  soon,  but  the  waves  in  which 
he^vas  struggHng  looked  only  the  blacker  tli-at  they 
were  shone  upon  by  the  signal-torch  that  promised 
safety,  and  love,  and  rest. 

It  is  good  to  know  that  one  of  Keats's  last  pleas- 
ures was  in  hearing  Severn  read  aloud  from  a  vol- 
ume of  Jeremy  Taylor.  On  first  coming  to  Rome, 
he  had  bought  a  copy  of  Alfieri,  but  finding  on  the 
second  page  these  lines, 

Misera  me !  soUievo  a  me  non  resta 
Altro  che  il  pianto,  ed  U  pianto  6  delitto, 

he  laid  down  the  book  and  opened  it  no  more.  On 
the  14th  February,  1821,  Severn  speaks  of  a  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  him  toward  greater  quietness 
and  peace.  He  talked  much,  and  fell  ai  last  into  a 
sweet  sleep,  in  which  he  seemed  to  have  happy 
dreams.  Perhaps  he  heard  the  soft  footfall  of  the 
angel  of  Death,  pacing  to  and  fro  under  his  win- 
dow, to  be  his  Valentine.  That  night  he  asked  to 
have  this  epitaph  inscribed  upon  his  gravestone, 

"  EEttE   LIES   ONE   WHOSE   NAMK  WAS   WRIT  IN   WATER." 

On  the  23(1,  he  died,  without  pain  and  as  if  falling 
asleep.  His  last  words  were,  "  I  am  dying ;  I  shall 
die  easy ;  don't  be  frightened ;  be  firm  and  thank 
God  It  has  come  !  " 

He  was  buried  in  the  Protestant  burial-ground  at 
Rome,  in  that  part  of  it  which  is  now  disused  and 
secluded  from  the  rest.  A  short  time  before  his 
death,  he  told  Severn  that  he  thought  his  iutcnscst 
pleasure  in  life  had  been  to  watch  the  growth  of 
>>.^  fiowers  ;  and  once,  after  lying  peacefully  awhifj,  he 

erst  house  on  the  right  hand  in  going  up  the  Scalinata.  Mr 
SeTerii's  Studio  Ls  said  to  have  been  in  the  Cancello  over  the  gap 
den-g!it<s  of  the  VilUi  Negroni,  pleasantly  familiar  to  all  Allien 
cans  aa  the  lloman  home  of  their  countryman  Crawford. 


/*«a^^£^a^^ 


THE  LIFE  OF  KEATS.  23 

said,  "  I  feel  tlie  flowers  frrowinj;  over  me."  Hii 
grave  is  marked  b}'  a  little  head-stone,  on  wbieh  are 
carved  somewhat  rudely  his  name  and  age.  and  th* 
epitaph  dietafed  by  himself.  No  tree  or  slind)  has 
been  planti'd  near  it;  but  the  daisies,  faithful  to 
their  buried  lover,  ei'owd  his  small  mound  with  a 
gala.xy  of  their  innocent  stars,  more  prosperous  tiian 
those  under  wliieh  he  li\ed. 

In  ])erson,  Keats  was  below  the  middle  height, 
with  a  head  small  in  proportion  to  the  breadtii  of  his 
shoulders.  His  hair  was  l)rown  and  fine,  falling  in 
natural  ringlets  about  a  face  in  which  energy  and 
sensibility  were  remaikably  mixed  up.  Every  feat- 
ure was  delicately  cut;  the  chin  was  bold;  and 
about  the  mouth  sometiiing  of  a  pugnacious  expres- 
sion. His  eyes  were  mellow  and  glowing,  large, 
dark,  and  sensitive.  At  the  recital  of  a  noble  ac- 
tion, or  a  beautiful  thought,  they  would  sufluse  with 
tears,  and  his  mouth  trembled.*  Haydon  says  that 
his  eyes  had  an  inward  Delphian  look  that  was  per- 
fectly divine. 

The  faults  of  Keats's  poetry  are  obvious  enough  ; 
but  it  should  be  remembered  that  he  died  at  twenty- 
four,  and  that  he  ofl'ends  by  superabundance  and 
not  poverty.  That  he  was  overlanguaged  at  first 
there  can  be  no  doubt,  and  in  this  was  implied  the 
possibility  of  falling  back  to  the  perfect  mean  of 
diction.  It  is  only  by  the  rich  that  the  costly  plain- 
ness, which  at  once  satisfies  the  taste  and  the  imag- 
ination, is  attainable. 

Whether  Keats  was  original  or  not  we  do  not 
think  it  useful  to  discuss  until  it  has  been  settled 
what  originality  is.  Mr.  Milnes  tells  us  that  this 
merit  (whatever  it  is)  has  been  denied  to  Keats, 
because  his  poems  take  the  color  of  the  authors  he 
happened  to  be  reading  at  the  time  he  wrote  them 
*  I<<!igh  Uunt'B  Autobiography,  ii.  43. 


36  TBE  LIFE   OF  KEATS. 

But  men  have  their  intellectual  ancestry,  and  the 
likeness  of  some  one  of  them  is  forever  unexpectedly 
flashnig  out  in  the  features  of  a  descendant,  it 
may  be  after  a  jjap  of  several  generations.  In  the 
parliament  of  the  present,  every  man  represents  a 
constituency  of  the  past.  It  is  true  that  Keats  has 
the  accent  of  the  men  from  whom  he  learned  to 
speak,  but  this  is  to  make  originality  a  mere  ques- 
tion of  externals,  and  in  this  sense  the  author  of  a 
dictionary  might  bring  an  action  of  trover  against 
every  author  who  used  his  words.  It  is  the  man 
behind  the  words  that  gives  them  value ;  and  if 
Shakspeare  help  himself  to  a  verse  or  a  phrase,  it 
iS  with  ears  that  have  learned  of  him  to  listen  that 
we  feel  the  harmony  of  the  one,  and  it  is  the  mass 
of  his  intelleet  that  makes  the  other  weighty  with 
meanintr.  Enough  that  we  recognize  in  Keats  that 
undefinable  newness  and  unexpectedness  that  we 
call  genius.  The  sunset  is  original  every  evening, 
though  for  thousands  of  years  it  has  built  out  of  the 
same  light  and  vapor  its  visionary  cities  with  domes 
and  pinnacles,  and  its  delectable  mountains  which 
night  shall  utterly  abase  and  destroy. 

Three  men,  almost  contemporaneous  with  each 
other,  Wordsworth,  Keats,  and  Byron,  were  the 
great  means  of  bringing  back  English  poetry  from 
the  sandy  deserts  of  rhetoric,  and  recovering  for 
her  her  triple  inheritance  of  simplicity,  sensuous- 
ness,  and  passion.  Of  these,  Wordsworth  was  the 
only  conscious  reformer ;  and  his  hostility  to  the 
existing  formalism  injured  his  earlier  poems  by 
tingeing  them  with  something  of  iconoclastic  extrav- 
agance. He  was  the  deepest  thinker,  Keats  the 
most  essentially  a  poet,  and  Byron  the  most  keenly 
intellectual  of  the  three.  Keats  had  the  broadest 
mind,  or  at  least  his  mind  was  o[)en  in  more  sides, 
and  he  was  able  to  understand  AVordsworth  and 
judge  Byron,  equally  conscious,  through  his  artistic 


THE    LIFE   OF  KEATS.  JT 

sense,  of  llic  jxrcatnesses  of  tho  one,  and  the  many 
littleni'ssi's  of  the  other,  while  Wordsworth  was  iso- 
lalt'd  'm  a  Ccclin!;  of  his  prophetic  cliaracter,  and 
Byron  hail  only  an  une.\sy  and  jealous  instinct  of 
contemporary  merit.  The  poems  of  Wordsworth, 
as  he  was  the  most  individual,  aecordinixly  reflect 
the  mooiis  of  his  own  nature  ;  those  of  Keats,  from 
scTisitivenoss  of  or;j;anizatioii,  the  moods  of  his  own 
taste  and  feeling;  and  those  of  Byron,  who  was  im- 
pressible chiedy  through  the  understanding,  the  in- 
tellectual and  moral  wants  of  the  times  in  which  he 
lived.  Wordsworth  has  influenced  most  the  ideas 
of  succeeding  poets;  Keats  their  forms;  and  Byron, 
interesting  to  men  of  imagination  less  for  his  writ- 
ings than  for  what  his  writings  indicate,  reappears 
no  more  in  poetry,  but  presents  an  ideal  to  youth 
made  restless  with  vague  desires  not  yet  regulated 
by  experit'iicH;  nor  supplied  with  motives  by  the 
duties  of  life. 

As  every  young  person  goes  through  all  the 
world-old  experieiices,  fancying  them  something 
peculiar  and  persona!  to  himself,  so  it  is  with  every 
new  generation,  whose  youth  always  finds  its  repre- 
sentatives in  its  poets.  Keats  rediscovered  the 
delight  and  wonder  that  lay  enchanted  in  the  dic- 
tionary. Wordsworth  revolted  at  the  poetic  diction 
which  he  found  in  vogue,  but  his  own  language 
rarcl)'  rises  above  it  except  when  it  is  u[)l)orne  by 
the  thought.  Keats  had  an  instinct  for  fine  words, 
w/iich  are  in  themselves  pictures  and  ideas,  and  had 
more  of  the  power  of  poetic  expression  than  any 
modern  English  poet.  And  by  poetii-  expression 
we  do  not  mean  merely  a  vividness  in  particulars, 
Dut  the  right  feeling  which  heightens  or  subdues  a 
passage  or  a  whole  poem  to  the  proper  tone,  and 
gives  entireness  to  the  effect.  There  is  a  great  deal 
more  than  is  commonly  supposed  in  this  choice  of 
words.     Men's  thoughts  and  opinions  are  in  a  great 


28  TEE  LIFE   OF  KEATS. 

degree  vassals  of  him  who  inven-ts  a  new  phrase  o» 
reapplies  an  old  epithet.  The  thou<iht  or  feeling 
a  thousand  times  rei)eated,  becomes  his  at  last  who 
utters  it  best.  This  power  of  languajze  is  veiled  in 
the  old  le^iends  which  make  the  invisible  powers 
the  servants  of  some  word.  As  soon  as  we  have 
discovered  tke  word  for  our  joy  or  sorrow,  we  are 
no  longer  its  serfs,  but  its  lords.  We  reward  the 
discoverer  of  an  anaBsthetic  for  the  body  and  make 
him  member  of  all  the  societies,  but  him  who  finds 
a  nepenthe  for  the  soul  we  elect  into  the  small 
academy  of  the  immortals. 

The  poems  of  Keats  mark  an  epoch  in  English 
poetry ;  for,  however  often  we  may  find  tiaces  of 
it  in  others,  in  them  found  its  strongest  expres- 
sion that  reaction  against  the  barrel-organ  style 
which  had  been  reigning  by  a  kind  of  sleepy  divine 
right  for  half  a  century.  The  lowest  point  was  in- 
dicated when  there  was  such  an  utter  confounding 
of  the  common  and  the  uncommon  sense  that  Dr. 
Johnson  wrote  verse  and  Burke  prose.  Tlie  most 
profound  gospel  of  criticism  was,  that  nothing  was 
good  poetry  that  could  not  be  translated  into  good 
prose,  as  if  one  should  say  that  the  test  of  suilicient 
moonliglit  was  that  tallow-candies  could  be  made 
of  it.  \Ve  find  Keats  at  first  going  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  endeavoring  to  extract  green  cucum- 
bers from  the  rays  of  tallow;  but  we  see  also  incon- 
testable jjroof  of  the  greatness  and  ]iurlty  of  his 
poetic  gift  in  the  constant  return  toward'equilib- 
rium  and  re[)ose  in  his  latter  poems.  And  it  is  a 
repose  always  lofty  and  clear-aired,  like  that  of  the 
eagle  balanced  in  inconununicable  sunshine.  In 
him  a  vigorous  understanding  developed  itself  in 
equal  measure  with  the  divine  faculty;  thought 
emancipated  itself  from  expression  without  becom- 
ing its  tyrant;  and  music  and  meaning  fl(j,ited 
together,  accordant  as  swan  and  shadovv,  on   iho 


"7 


TUE  LIFE    OF  KEATS. 


29 


'Mnooth  element  of  liis  verse.  Without  losing  Ita 
Bensuousiiess,  his  poetry  refined  itself  and  grew 
more  inward,  and  the  sensational  was  elevated  into 
the  typical  by  the  control  of  that  finer  sense  which 
andcrlies  the  senses  and  is  the  spirit  of  them. 

J    R.  L. 


ENDYMION: 

A    POETIC    ROMANCE. 

tVBCBIBED      TO     THE     BIEMORT     Of 

THOMAS  CIIATTERTON. 


TMM   STHETCHED    METUE    OF   AN    ANTIQDB    80B« 


PREFACE. 


Knowing  within  myself  the  manner  in  wnich 
this  Poem  has  been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a 
faeliiig  of  regret  tliat  I  make  it  public. 

What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  (juite  clear  to  the 
reader,  who  must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience, 
immaturity,  and  every  error  denoting  a  feverish 
attempt,  rather  tlian  a  deed  accomplished.  The 
two  first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sen- 
sible are  not  of  such  completion  as  to  wari'ant  their 
passing  the  press;  nor  should  they  if  I  thought  a 
year's  castigation  would  do  them  any  good  ;  —  it 
will  not;  the  foundations  are  too  sandy.  It  is  just 
that  this  youngster  should  die  away  :  a  sad  thought 
for  me,  if  I  had  not  some  ho[)e  tliat  while  it  is 
dwindling  I  may  be  plotting,  and  fitting  myself  foi 
verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and 
may  desorve  a  punishment;  but  no  feeling  man 
will  be  forward  to  inflict  it;  he  will  leave  me  alone, 
with  the  conviction  that  there  is  not  a  fiercer  hell 
than  the  failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not 
written  with  the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall 
criticisms  of  course,  but  from  the  desire  I  have  to 
conciliate  men  who  are  competent  to  look,  and  who 
do  look  with  a  zealous  eye,  to  the  honor  of  Eng- 
lish literature. 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  tne 
mature  imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy;  but  there 
is  a  space  of  life  between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a 

a 


54 


PREFACE. 


ferment,  the  character  unJecidefl,  the  way  of  life 
uncertain,  the  ambition  thick-sighted;  thence  pro- 
ceeds mawkishness,  and  all  the  tliousand  bitters 
which  those  men  I  speak  of  must  necessarily  taste 
in  frolng  over  the  following  pages. 
""  I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the 
beautiful  mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  it* 
brightness ;  for  I  wisli  to  try  once  more  bi-,fore  ] 
bid  it  farewell. 

TuGNMOUTH,  April  10,  1818. 


-^^ 


^!^:^^ 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK  1 


A_  THTT^O  nf  hp-AuijJs j\^jovJor  over : 
^  Its  loveliness  iiiureascs;  jt  will  never 
__P3ps  Into  nnt.liingnpgq  ^'LT^f  s(ill  will  kcep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a^lee]) 

Ful]  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breatb- 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  ai'o  we  wreathing 
A  flovyery  bund  to.  bjiid  us  to  the  earth.,   —     - 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 
Of  all  the  unlicaltliy  and  o'er-darken'd  ways 
Made  for  oiir  searching  :  yes,  in  spite  of  ail, 
Somi'  slmpe  of  beauty  moves  nwny  Hip  p:.ll ,  ^ 
From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 
Trees  old  and  younp:,  sprontin;^  a  shadv  boon 
For  simple  sheep  ;  and  such  are  dalfodils 
With  the  <;reen  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rill? 
That  for  themselves  a  cooliiiix  covert  make 
'(iainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 
Ricii  witli  a  sprinklinjx  of  fair  musk-rose  bloonxs  • 
And  such  too  is  the  ijrandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ; 
AH  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read : 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soou 
Dear  as  th'i  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon. 


36  ENDYMIOH. 

The  jiassjon  poesj:,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  wLether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 
Tliey  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  1 
Will  trace  the  story  of  En^hgiiion. 
The  very  nvusic  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys :  so  I  will  begin 
Now  Avhile  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din ; 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests ;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  snroothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours. 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white. 
Hide  in  deep  herbage;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary. 
See  it  half-finish'd  :  but  let  Autumn  bold. 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold^ 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness  : 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speeQ 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  was  outspread 
A.  mighty  forest ;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 


E^DY^1WN.  t7 

So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 

Into  o'erc!ian;j;in^  bou;:lis,  and  precious, fruits. 

And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequester'd  deep, 

Where  no  man  went ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 

A  lamb  stray'd  far  a-down  those  inmost  glens, 

Never  again  saw  lie  tlie  ha|)py  pens 

Whitlier  his  brethren,  bleating  witli  content, 

Over  the  iiills  at  every  nightfall  went. 

Among  the  shepherds  'twas  believed  ever, 

That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 

From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 

By  any  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head, 

Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 

Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan  :  ay,  great  his  gains 

Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose. '  Paths  there  were 

many,  ,^ 

Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  feilO^      "^ 
And  ivy  banks;  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 
Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 
Of  tuft  and  slanting  branches  :  who  could  tell 
The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  alwve, 
Edged  round  with  dark  tree-tops?  through  whicb 

a  dove 
Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 

FulLiiUJie -middle- of  this  pleasantness   ^^jj^Y-t^Vx- 
There  stood  a  marble  altar^^witii  a  tress     (-^^^ 
Of  flowers  budded  newly;  and  the  dew 
Jta(l  lakcii  lairy  phantasies  to  strew  . 

Daisies  upun  the  sacred  sward  last  eve,  r    ^1    /l^'*' 

And  so  tiie  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive.    ^^  ^yyl^^'^ 
For  'twas  the  morn  :   Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  clouJ^a  silvery  pyre 
Of  bngUluess  so  unsullied,  that  therein" 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 

45G556 


38  END7MI0N. 

Into  the  winds:  rain-scented  eglantine 
Gave  temperate  sweets  to  tliat  well-wooing  sun_; 
The  lark  was  lost  in  him  ;  fo!d  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains ;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  pulsed  tenfold, 
To  feel  this  sun-rise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  withJoylul-.ODes,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little-chiWren  garlanded ; 
Who  gathering  round  the  altar,  seem'd  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faiut  breath  of  music,  which  even  then 
Pill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave, 
To  light-hung  Teaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 
Through   copse-clad    valleys,  —  ere     their    death, 

o'ertaking 
The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmer'd ,li^ht_ 
Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white, 
Plainer  and  plainer  showing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  widest  alley  they  all  past, 
..flaking  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
()  kindly  muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  falter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  cojnpanj,   _ 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee  : 
lju_t  let.A  portion- of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul ;  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring. 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing. 


e 


ENDY.yflON.  39 

Leailinij  the  way,  youiiji  ilauiscl:  danced  along, 
Bearing;  the  burden  of  a  shei)liei(rs  song; 
Each  havinj:;  a  wliitc  wicker,  overbnmm'd 
With  April's  tendcf  younf!;Iin<is  :  next,  well  trinim  li, 
A  crowd  of  slu'iibjJJ'Us  witli  as  siinhiirnt  looks 
As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books; 
Such  as  sat  listenini;  round  Apollo's  pipe, 
When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 
Let  his  divinily  o'ei-llowinji;  die 
III  musii',  throiigli  the  vales  of  Thessaly: 
Some  idly  trail'd  tiicir  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground, 
And  some  k(!])t  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 
With  ebon-tipped  flutes  :  close  after  these, 
Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
A  venerable  priest  liiU  soberly, 
Begirt  with  ministering  looks  :  alway  his  eye 
Steadfast  ujioii  the  matted  turf  he  kept, 
And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 
From  his  right  hand  there   swung  a  vase,   milk- 
white. 
Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light ; 
And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 
Of  all  sweet  herbs  tiiat  searching  eye  could  cull : 
W'ild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 
Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 
Ilis  aged  head,  crowned  with  beechcn  wreath, 
^Seem'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth     '^-^^■y'K 
Of  winter  hoar.)    Thciixauic  another  crowJ 
iJiL^epUeids,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 
Their  share  of  the  ditty.     After  them  appear'd, 
Up-follow'd  by  a  nuiililuUe  that  rear'd 
Their  voices  to  the  cloufls,  a  fair- wrought  car 
Easily  rolling  so  as  scarcti  to  mar 
The  freedom  of  three  stt-*(is  of  dapple  brown  : 
^Vho  stood  therein  diil  sceui  of^great  renown 
Among  the  throng.     His  youth  was  fully  blown, 
Showing  like  Ganymeile  to  niaiiliood  grown; 
And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 


40  END  r Ml  ON 

A  ehieftam  kinp;'s ;  lioneatli  his  breast,  lialf  bare, 
Was  huniT  a  silver  buule,  and  between 
His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 
A  smile  was  on  his  countenance  ;  he  seem'd 
To  common  lookers-on  like  one  who  dream'd 
Of  idleness  in  groves  El_vsian  : 
But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 
A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 
And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 
Through  his  forgotten  hands  :  then  would  they  sigh, 
And  tiiink  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry, 
Of  logs  piled  solemnly. —  Ah,  well-a-day, 
-.Why  should  our  young  JEndymjoD  pine  away_I 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  ranged. 
Stood    silent    round    the    shrine :    each    look    waa 

changed 
To  sudden  veneration  :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence  ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  Avithout  a  forest  peer, 
Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands, 
Thus   spake   he  :    "  Men    of    Latmos  I    shepherd 

bands ! 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains  ;  whether  come 
From  valleys  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb  ; 
Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stiri 
Blue  harebells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold  ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
Nibble  their  fill  at  ocean's  \ery  marge, 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn  : 


~1 


K. 


i:m)YMIon.  41 

Mothers  UPid  wives  !  who  day  by  day  prepare 
Tlie  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  iiiouiitaiii  air; 
And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 
Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup 
Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favour'd  youth  : 
Yea,  every  one  attend  !  for  in  good  trutli. 
Our  vows  are  wanting  toour  great  god  Pan. 
Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  tiian 
Nin^ht-swoUen    mushrooms  ?      Are    not    our    wide 

plains 
Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  ?     Have  not  rains 
Green'd  over  April's  lap  ?     No  howling  sad 
Sickens  our  fearful  ewes;  and  \£C5.  luive.  had  . 
Grea^bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 
The  eartiris  glad  :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd 
His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky, 
That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindlingjacre^_fij:a-; 
Anon  lie  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wjic  in  honour  of  the  shepherd-god. 
^ow  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bav  leaves  were  crackling  in  tiie  fragrant  pile. 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
'Neath  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light 
Spread  grayly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang  : 

"  O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  llowers  in  heavy  peacefulness ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruflled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  , 
And    through    whole    solemn    hours  dost   sit,   and 

hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds  — 
In  desolate  places,  wh^re  dank  moisture  breeds 


oxj 


42  ENDYMWN. 

The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 

Bethinkii>g  thee,  how  mehincholy  lotli 

Thou  wast  to  lose  foir  Syrinx  —  do  thou  now, 

By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ! 

By  all  the  tremblinp;  mazes  that  she  ran. 

Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

"  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  tiulle* 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  oiitskirt  tlie  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Tlieir  ripen'd  fruitage;  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  biossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn  ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  ibr  thee  ;  low-creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness;  pent-up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ;  yea,  the  fresh-budding  yeai 
All  its  completions  —  be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine  1 

"  Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  tties 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
Tiie  stjuatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  Hit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 
Or  to  tread  breatidess  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tnml)Ie  into  Naiads'  cells. 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  tlieir  out-peeping; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  Ijrowu  — 


ENDYMION.  if 

Hj  «/l  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  0  sat;  r  king  1 . 

"  O  He«rlvL'iier  to  the  loud-elapping  shears, 
W'hile  evor  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating:   Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  eorn 
Anger  our  luintsnian  :   Breather  round  our  I'arm*. 
To  keep  ofF  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms : 
Strange  niinistrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
riiat  come  a-swooninix  over  hollow  Erounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Oread  opener  of  tlie  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge  —  see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
Willi  leaves  about  their  brows! 

"  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven. 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain  :  be  still  the  leavea 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth. 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal  —  a  new  birth  : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity : 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between ; 
An  unknown  —  but  no  more:  we  humbly  screen 
With  ui)lift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending, 
And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  lumible  Pa;an, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  I  " 

,  -  Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close 
A  shout  from  the  whole  nudtitude  arose, 

]That  linger'd  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals 

'Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the  brine. 


44  ENDYMION 

Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine, 

Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 

To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 

Ay,  those  foir  living  tbrms  swam  heavenly 

To  tunes  forgotten  —  out  of  memory  : 

Fair  creatures!  whose  young  children's  chililren  bretl 

Thermopylae  its  heroes  —  not  yet  dead, 

But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 

High  genitors,  unconscious  did  they  cull 

Time's  sweet  first-fruits  —  they  danced  to  weariness, 

And  tlien  in  qu.iet  circles  did  they  press 

The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 

Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  se:id 

A  youn"-  mind  from  its  bodily  tene:ne!it. 

Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 

On  either  side  ;  pitying  the  sad  death 

Of  Hyacinthus,  when  the  cruel  breath 

Of  Zephyr  slew  him,  —  Zephyr  penitent. 

Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firmament. 

Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 

The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain, 

Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft 

And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft, 

Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 

Call'd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelope 

Those  who  would  watch.     Perhaps,  the  trembling 

knee 
And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 
Poor,  lonely  Niobe  !  when  her  lovely  young 
Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing  tongue 
Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip, 
And  very,  very  deadliness  did  ni[) 
Her  motherly  cheeks.     Aroused  from  this  sad  mood 
By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd. 
Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  tlie  air. 
Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare  : 
After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 
Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  resthiss  ways. 


ENDYMION.  41 

Until,  from  tin-  liorizon's  vaulted  stde, 

There  shot  a  uolden  splendour  far  and  wide, 

Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 

\Vith  quiverin";  ore  :  'twas  even  an  awful  shine. 

From  tiie  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow  ; 

A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 

AVho  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating, 

Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 

'  Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  wiiose  looks  increased 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discoursed  upon  the  fragile  bar 

That  keeps  us  from  our  liomes  ethereal ; 

And  what  our  duties  there:  to  nightly  call 

Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather  ; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple  coueh ;  to  emulate 

In  ministering  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fn-e-tail'd  exhalations ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cona 

Sweet  ])uesy  by  moouliglitj.  besides  these, 

A  world  of  otlier  unguess'd  offices. 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse. 

Into  Elysium  ;  vying  to  rehearse 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  heart-certain  tliat  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick-gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  bougha, 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  witli  nuisic  lor  the  welcoming. 

Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring. 

To  meet  his  I'osy  child,  with  feathery  sails. 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales  : 

Wiio,  suddenly,  should   stoop  through  the  smooth 

wind. 
And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind ; 
And,  ever  after,  tlirough  those  regions  be 
His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 
borne  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  ajjcain 


46  END  YM  J  ON. 

Their  fellow-huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 

In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  witii  them,  and  talk 

Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk; 

Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 

Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors, 

Benighted,  close  tiiey  liuildled  from  the  cold, 

And  shared  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus  all  outtol(L 

Their  fond  imaginations,  —  saving  him  j 

Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim,.    y^flSZ^ 

Endymion  :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 

To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 

His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 

His  senses  had  swoon'd  off:  he  did  not  heed 

The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 

Or  the  ol<l  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe. 

Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms. 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  gri^f  itself  embalms : 

But  in  the  self-same  hxecFtrance  he  kept. 

Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept. 

Ay,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man. 

Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantiiigly  and  close  ? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister:  >of  all  those, 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing  signs  she  made 
And  breathed  a  sister's  sorrow  to  pei'suaile 
A  yielding  u}),  a  cradling  on  her  gare. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse  : 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams. 
Along  a  patii  between  two  little  streams, — 
Guarding  his  fo-rehead,  with  her  round  elbow, 
From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 
From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall, 
With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush, 
Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 
With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 


ENDTMION.  47 

A  little  shallop,  floatinnr  tiierc  hard  by. 

Pointed  its  beak  over  the  friiijicd  bank  ; 

And  soon  it  li<ilit]y  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank, 

And  dipt  aijain,  witli  tlie  young  eouple's  weiglil,  — 

Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straiglit, 

Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite  ; 

^V'hich  gaining  j)resently,  siie  steered  light 

Into  a  sliady,  i'ri-sh,  and  ri])ply  cove, 

W'liere  nested  was  an  arl)(jur,  overwove 

liy  many  a  sunnner's  silent  lingering ; 

To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bi'ing 

Her  playmates,  with  tlieir  needle  broidery, 

And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 

So  she  "was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 

Under  her  favourite  bower's  (piiet  shade, 
On  lier  own  eoueh,  new  made  of  ilower  leave*, 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  siui  his  autnnin  Iri^sses  shook, 
Aiul  tiie  tann'd  harvesters  rich  arnifuls  took 
Soon  was  lie  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 
But,  ere  it  crept  U[)on  him,  lie  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips. 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  (iiiger-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace  :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  bluebells,  or  a  wren  liiilit  rustlinw 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heard, 

Qjnagic  sleep  !  O  comfortable  bird,  ^ 

That  brooilest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind       / 
'J'ill  it  is  husli'd  and  smooth  !   O  unconfined 
Restraint!  imprison'd  liberty!  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountains  grotcs()ue,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves, 


48  END  YM I  ON. 

Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 

And  moonlight ;  ay,  to  all  the  mazy  world 

Of  silvery  enchantment!  —  who,  upturl'd 

Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour, 

But  renovates  and  lives  V  —  Thus,  in  the  bower, 

Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 

Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain, 

Pie  said  :  "  1  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 

All  tiirough  my  bosom:  thou  art  as  a  dove 

Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 

About  me  ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 

Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 

As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  tv/inkling  stray 

From  those  kind  eyes,  —  the  very  home  and  haunt 

Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 

Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such  tears? 

Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 

That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 

Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  moi'e  raise 

My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights  ;  once  more 

Make  my  horn  i)arley  from  their  foreheads  hoar: 

Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 

Around  the  breatiied  boar :  again  I'll  poll 

The  fair  grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  bow  : 

And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 

Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 

To   hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 

Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet  1 

And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  entreat 

My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source, 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  e.xclaim, 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle-cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Uryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child  • 


And  notliiiig  sinci;  has  floated  in  the  air 

So  nioiii'ni'ul  straiiire.     Siirulv  sonic  iiirliience  idre 

Went,  s[)iritnal,  tlirougli  the  d'anisel's  lianJ  , 

For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 

The  ([uiik  invisible  strings,  even  tiiough  she  saw 

Enilyniion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 

Bel'orc  the  dec])  intoxication. 

But  soon  slie  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 

Her  selt-[)Ossession  —  swuiiii  the  lute  aside. 

And  earnestly  sa'd :  "  Brother,  'tis  vain  to  hide 

That  thou  dost  lc_  jw  of  things  mysterious, 

Innnortal,  starry ;  such  alone  could  thus 

Weigh    down    thy   nature.      Hast   thou   sinn'd  in 

anght 
OlTensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?     Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent? 
Thy  dealliful  bow  against  some  deer-herd  beat, 
Slicrgd.  tP  I^'-ILIL'*     Haplv,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  ammig  tlie..aldSr3'gieeu; 
And  that.'aTiFs  !  is  dccUh.     No,  I  can  trace 
SomethTiig  mora  high  perplexing  in  thy  face  I " 

Endymlon  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows?     How  is  this? 
Tell  me  thine  ailment:  tell  me  all  amiss! 
Ah!  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 
AVrought   suddenly   in    me.       What   indeed   mora 

strange  ? 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise? 
Ambition  jg.uobluggai'd.:  'lis  no  prize, 
^CEkl -toiling  jH;ars^vmiklj)ut  within  my  grasp^ 
"J'hat  I  have  sigh'd  ibr :   with  so  deadly  gasp  _ 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  alTIiave  set  my  lieavi';''  jni~t'  nhr»v<> 
Tiieae  things  whic'a  happen,      liightly  have  they 

done  : 
I.  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 
4 


60  END  YM I  ON. 

Heave   his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the   edge  of  the 

■world, 
Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 
My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chase  — 
I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching ;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire  — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  fire, 
And  sink  thus  low!  but  I  will  ease  my  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky. 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood. 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon  : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves ; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 
/  -      ^  And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 
f(l^      When  he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins, 
//  ?^^^  -^"*^  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 

vj  His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 

Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast, 
There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  dittany,  and  poppies  jedj 
At  which  I  wonder'd  greatly,  knowing  well 
That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery  spell 
And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 
ji\  What  it  might  mean.      Perhaps,  thought  I,  Mnr 

0  pheus. 

In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook; 
Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 
Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth, 
Had^dipp'd  his  rod  in  it:  such  giwland  wealth 
Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought 


ENDVM/Oy.  51 

Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distrauirht. 

Moreover,  tlirou^di  the  (laiuiiii,'  popijies  stole 

A.  breeze  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul ; 

A.nd  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 

Of  colors,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light; 

The  which  became  n^ore  strange,  and  strange,  and 

dim, 
And  then  were  gulf'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim: 
And  Lliuft-I  full  aiilcop.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befijU  V 
Yet  it  was  but  a  t|rei^m  :  yet  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  allliongh  it  over  teem 
With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring, 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenitli,  where  the  milky  way 
Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendour  pours; 
And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 
Of  heaven  api)ear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance: 
So  kept  me  steadfast  in  that  airy  trance, 
Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 
When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 
And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view: 
At  which  1  sigli'd  that  I  could  not  pursue. 
And  dropp'd  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge; 
lAnd  lo!  from  opcniiiij  clouds,  I  saw  (>.mergft 
The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 
A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet;  slie  did  soar 
So  passionately  brijiht.  my  dazzled  soul     _ 
Comming.ing  with  her  ardent  spheres  did  roll 
Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 
At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapoury  tent  — 
Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 
Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 
To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I  ralaed . 
My  sight  ri[];ht  np'^a'''! :  ^"^  '^*  was  quite  dazed 


52  END  YM  ION. 

By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace, 
Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face : 
Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 
Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies 
Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  completeness  ? 
Whence  came  that  high   perfection  of  all   sweefr 

ness  ? 
Speak,   stubborn    earth,   and   tell    me   where,    O 

where 
(Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair? 
N'ot  oat-sheaves  drooping  lu  the  western  sun^ 
Not  —  thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister !  let  me  shun 
Such  follying  before  thee  —  yet  she  had. 
Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad ; 
And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 
Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow, 
The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how, 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes, 
Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sighs. 
That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 
And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 
Of  human  neighbourhood  envenom  all. 
Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 
To  what  high  fane,  —  Ah  !  see  her  hovering  feet, 
More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet. 
Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 
From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out-blows 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 
'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed, 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  bluebell  bed, 
Handfuls  of  daisies."  —  "  Endymion,  how  strange! 
Dream    within    dream  I  "  —  "  She    took    an    airj 

range. 
And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid. 
Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid. 
And  press'd  me  by  the  hand:  Ah!  'twas  too  much 


K.XDVMION.  Sa 

MetlioiBclit  I  fainted  at  the  iliarmed  toucli, 

Yet  lield  my  recolleetion,  even  as  one 

Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 

GurGjIinjx  in  beds  of  coral  :  for  anon, 

I  felt  ufimoiintcd  in  that  rej^ion 

Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth, 

And  eajjles  struggle  with  the  bulTeting  north 

That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ;  — 

Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone, 

But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 

Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journey  in  ■_'  hrgli, 

And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoopM  ; 

Such  as  aye  muster  where  gray  tinu!  has  scoop'd 

Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side : 

There  hollow  sounds  aroused  me,  and  I  sigli'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss  — 

I  was  distracted;  madly  did  I  kiss 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death :  but  'twas  to  live. 

To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 

Of  kind  and  passionate  looks;  to  count,  and  count 

The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd       ,  yi\>'l'' 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd  M(^f\Z*  i 

And  plunclery  of  its  load  of  blessedness.         '   xifcf*'^" 

Ah,  desperate  mortal  I  I  even  dared  to  press 

Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 

And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 

Into  a  warmer  air :  a  moment  moie, 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 

Of  newest  joys  u[)on  that  alp.     Sometimes 

A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 

Loiter'd  around  us  ;  then  of  honey  cells, 

Made  delicate  from  all  white-flower  bells; 

And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest. 

An  arch  face  peep'd,  —  an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'erpower'd  xq» 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?     Why  not  see, 


54  END  YMION. 

Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 
And  stare  them  irom  me  ?     But  no,  like  a  spark 
That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 
Reflects  upon  a  di-amond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing  —  into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 
A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 
And  up  I  started  :  Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  tears. 
My  clenched  hands  ;  —  lor  lo  1  the  poppies  hung 
Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 
With  leaden  looks  :  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  tease 
With  wayward  melancholy  ;  and  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona  !  that  sometimes  it  bi-ought 
Faint  fare-thee-wells,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus  !  — 
Away  1  wander'd  —  all  the  pleasant  hues 
Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 
Were  dticpest  dungeons  ;  heaths  and  sunny  gladca 
:-  fS    Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  lills 
^,^    Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'erspread  with  upturu'd  gills 

--£  i     Of  dying  fish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 
5v     In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  outgrown 

:;2'S.      Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 
*  ^1^  Before  my  heedless  footstei)s  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 

\         In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 

A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 

My  soul  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice 

My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice  : 

Therefore  I  eager  fbllow'd,  and  did  curse 

The  disappointment.     Tmie,  that  aged  nurse, 

Rock'd  me  to  patience.    Now,  thank  gentle  heaven 

These  things,  with  all  their  comfbrtings,  are  given 

To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with,  thee, 

Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 

Of  weary  life." 


-^ 


ENDYMION.  55 

Tlius  uiided  lie,  and  both 
Sat  siK'iiL :  I'or  tlie  maid  was  very  loth 
To  answer;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  k)st,  unheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     Siie  weeps, 
And  wonders ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame  ; 
To  ]nit  on  such  a  look  as  would  say.  Shame 
On  lids  puur  weakness  !  but,  ibr  all  her  strife. 
She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the  life 
From  a  sick  dove.     At  length,  to  break  the  pause, 
She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  "  Is  this  the  cause  I 
This  all  V     Yel  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas  ! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 
No  higher  bard  than  sinii)le  maidenhood. 
Singing  alone,  and  fearfully,  —  how  the  blood 
Left  his  young  cheek  ;  and  how  he  used  to  stray 
He  knew  not  where:  and  how  he  would  say,  nay, 
If  any  said  'twas  love  :  and  yot  'twas  love  ; 
What  could  it  be  but  love  ?     How  a  ring-dove 
Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew-tree  in  his  path 
And  how  he  died  :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe 
The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses  ; 
And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 
With  sighs,  and  an  alas  !  —  Endymion  I 
Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth,  —  anon 
Among  the  winds  at  large  —  tiiat  all  may  hearken! 
Although,  before  the  cr^'itaL  heavens  darken, 
I  watch  and  dote  upon  the  silver  lakes 
Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 
The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands, 
Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretted  strands 
With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 
And  towers  of  amethyst,  —  would  I  so  tease 
My^jleasant  days,  because  1  could  not  mount 
Into  those  regions  ?     The  Morphean  fouist 


56 


ENDYMION. 


Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams, 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle, 

So  thin  a  breathing,  not  the  spider's  shuttle, 

Circled  a  million  tunes  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nest-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality  :  how  light 

Must  dreams  themselves  be  ;  seeing  they're  more 

slight 
Than  the  mere  nothing  tliat  engenders  them  ! 
Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted  gem 
Of  hijrli  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  V 
Why  pierce  high-fronted  honour  to  the  quick 
Fo/nothing  but  a  dream  ?  "     Hereat  the  youth 
Look'd  up  :  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 
Was  in  his  plaited  brow  :  yet  his  eyelids 
Widen'd  a  little,, as  when  Zephyr  bids 
A  little  breeze  to  cr.eep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterflies:  amid  his  pains 
He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 
Full  palatable  ;  and  a  colour  grew 
Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifeful  spake. 

"  Peona  iQver  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises):  nothing  base, 
No  merely  slumberous  phantasm,  could  unlace 
The  stubborn  canvas  tor  my  voyage  prepared  — 
Though  now  'tis  tatter'd)  leaving  my  bark  bared 
And  s'uUenly  drifting  :  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope, 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks, 
^^Ll^erem  lie^happiness  ?     In  that  which  becks. 
Our  ready  niinds  to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fcUowshi))  with  csseuccj,  till  we  shine, 
Fulluiidumil^d,  andTreleof  space.     Behold 
The  clear  religion  of  heav^i  1     Fold 
A  rose-leaf  round  thy  finger's  tapernesS; 
And  soothe  thv  lips  :  hist!  when  the  airy  stres* 


rSDYMlOS. 


5; 


n 


^ 


Of  music's  kiss  impr('<Tnates  the  free  wimla, 

And  with  a  syinpatlietic  toiicli  unliinds 

ilColian  magic  Iroin  their  luciil  wombs  : 

Then  old  songs  waken  from  encloiided  tombs ; 

Old  ditties  sigii  above  their  father's  grave  ;    .^-^-^r^^^s^xL   -■ 

(ihosts  of  melodious  [jrophesvings  rave  •^~.^^^^'rTt^^^<-^^' 

Round  every  spot  wlii-ie  troil  Apollo's  foot; 

Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  fafntly  bniit, 

Where  lonij  a";o  a  mwwX.  battle  was : 

And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 

In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept.)  j^p 

Feel    we    these  things !  —  that    moment    have    i» 

stept 
Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 
Is  like  a  lloating  s|)irit's.     But  there  are 
Richer  entanglements,  enHrnthlieilts  lar' 
More  self-destroying,  leading,  b}'  degi"ees. 
To  the  chief  intensity  :  the  crown  of  these 
is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  arid  sits  high 
I^)on  the  forehead  of  humanity.  •  ^ 
All  its  more  j)onderous  and  bulky  worth 
Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 
A  steady  splendour;  bnf  at  '*'"  '■['-t'-'p, 
There  hangs  bv  uns(;(-n  film,  an  nrlxtd  drop 
{^'i  light,  and  tlint  is  Inve :  its  influence 
Thrown  in  our  I'yes  genders  a  novel  sense, 
At  which  we  start  and  fret:  till  in  the  end, 
Melting  into  its  i^atbance,  we  blend, 
Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it,  — 
Kor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 
''So  wingedly  :   when  we  combine  thereu'ith. 
Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith, 
And  we  arc  nurtured  like  a  ])elican  brood- 
Ay,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food. 
That  men,  who  might  have  tower'd  in  the  van 
Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 
And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 
All  chair  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime 


h  >* 


^y, 


I 


^ 


/ 


.\ 


6»  EN DY Ml  ON. 

Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry, 
Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die, 
Whilst'they  did  sleep  in  love's  Elysium. 
An-d,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb, 
Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness  : 
For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 
The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly  ; 
As  does  the(1iightingaler)upperc-hed  high, 
And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves  — 
She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives 
How  tiptoe  Night  liolds  back  her  dark-gray  hood 
Just  so  may  love,  although  'tis  understood 
The  mere  conuningling  of  passionate  breath, 
Produ(re  more  than  our  searching  witnesseth: 
What  I  know  not :  but  who,  of  men,  can  tell 
That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruit  would 

swell 
To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  mail. 
The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood,  and  vale, 
The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones, 
The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones, 
Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet, 
If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet? 

"  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to  make 
Men's  being  mortal,  immortal ;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content;  what  merest  whim, 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavour  after  fame, 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  steadfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  inunortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wilder'd  ;  for  these  things  are  true, 
And  never  can  be  born  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain-flies, 
Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I'm  sure. 
My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury. 
Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 


^ 


EN DY MI  ON.  51 

A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem 

When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking;  sight 

Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night 

Was  |)ass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet   Peonal 

Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 

Which   we   should   see    but   for   these    darkening 

boughs, 
Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brow3 
Buslies  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart, 
And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught, 
And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 
Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every  side. 
Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool  cell, 
Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well, 
Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 
Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 
Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 
Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 
Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits: 
'Twas  there  J  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 
In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  beat. 
When  all  above  was  fliint  with  mid-day  heat. 
And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 
I'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed  ; 
So  reaching  back  to  boyhood  :  make  me  ships 
Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips. 
With  leaves  stuck  in  them  ;  and  the  Neptune  be 
Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily, 
When  lovelorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 
I  sat  conten)[)lating  the  figures  wild 
Of  o'er-Iiead  clouds  melting  the  mirror  fhrougL 
Upon. a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 
A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver; 
So  plainly  character'd,  no  breeze  would  shiver 
The  happy  chance  :  so  happy,  I  was  fain 
To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain, 
Aud,  therefore,  was  just  going;  when,  bcholdf 


T" 


60  END  ¥311  ON. 

A  -wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told  — 
The  same  bright  face  T  tasted  in  my  sippp, 
.Smilinpr  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 
Through  the  cool  depth.  —  It  moved  as  if"  to  flee  — 
I  started  up,  when  lo  !  refreshfully, 
There  came  upon  my  face,  in  pk^nteous  showers, 
Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers^ 
Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smother'd  sight, 
_Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 
'"  Ay,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 
Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 
Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 
Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant ;  but  pain 
Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth 
On  the  deer's  tender  haunches  :  late,  and  loth, 
'Tis  scared  awa_y  by  slow  returning  pleasure. 
How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure 
Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite. 
By  a  foreknowledge  of  unslumbrous  night ! 
Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still. 
Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy  hill : 
And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 
Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 
Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 
Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  ftnrli^^tmonf  ^oon  ,_ 
Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 
When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife         -tka 
With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,  and  left   U  ^ 

skies 
Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  with  moisten'd  eyes 
In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  "infant  buds,  — 
That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 
My  hunting-cap,  because  I  laugh'd  and  smiled, 
Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exiled 
All  torment  from  my  breast ;  —  'twas  even  then 
Straying  about,  yet  coop'd  up  in  the  den 
Of  hel{)less  discontent,  — hurlin2  my  lance 
From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance, 


ENDTMION.  61 

At  last,  by  liap,  tliroujih  someyounj:  trees  it  struck, 
And,  plashiiij^  amoiiji  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 
In  the  middle  of  a  brook,  —  whose  silver  ramble 
Down  twenty  little  falls  through  reeds  and  bramble 
Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave, 
Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 
The  nether  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock,  — 
'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blithe  adieus,  to  mock 
Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.     Overhead, 
Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread 
Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymi)h's  home. 

Ah  I  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam  1 ' 
Said  I,  low-voiced  :  '  Ah,  whither !  'Tis  the  grot 
Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot, 
Uoth  her  resign:  and  where  her  tender  hands 
She  dabbles  on  the  cool  and  sluiey  sands: 
Or  'tis  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits, 
And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 
Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon, 
Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  tlying  tone 
Of  sadness.     O  that  she  would  take  my  vows. 
And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 
To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head. 
Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed. 
And  weave   them   dyingly  —  send  honey-whisiiew 
Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lisjers 
May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying  I 
O  charitable  Echo!  hear,  and  sing 
This  ditty  to  her  1  —  tell  her'—  So  I  stay'd 
My  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid, 
Stood  stu])eficd  with  my  own  eni[)ty  foily, 
And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 
Salt  tears  wen?  coming,  when  I  heard  my  name 
Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came : 

Phulymion  1  the  cave  is  secretor 
Than'the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall  stir 
No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 
Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 


62  END  YMION. 

JAnd  trembles  through  my  labyrinth-ine  hair.* 
At  that  oppress'cl,  I  hurried  in.  —  Ah  I  where 
Are  those  swift  moments  I     Whither  arc  they  Med 
I'll  smile  no  more,  Peona ;  nor  will  wed 
Sorrow,  the  way  to  death  ;  but  patiently 
Bear  up  agains-t  it :  so  farewell,  sad  sigh ; 
And  come  instead  demurest  meditation. 
To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 
My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 
No  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link, 
My  chain  of  grief:  no  longer  strive  to  find 
A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 
Blustering  about  my  ears:  ar,  thou  shalt  see, 
Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be ; 
What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 
There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 
Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet,  I'll  say  'tis  nought  — 
And  here  I  bid  it  die.     Have  not  I  caught, 
Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  ? 

3y  thisthe  sun  isj^itu!": ;  we  may  chance 
Meet  soihe  of  our  near-dwellers  wi'th  my  car." 

This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling,  like  a  star 
Through  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's  hand! 
They  stept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


BOOK  II. 

O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love  !  O  grief  1  O  balm! 
All  records,  savnig  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 
And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years: 
For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 
Have  become  indolent ;  but  touc^iing  thine, 
One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine, 
One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 


KNDYMION.  68 

Tlie  woes  of  Tro}-,    towers  smothering   o'er   their 

blaze, 
Stid-lioldeii  sliiel<l3,  far-piercinir  spears,  keen  blades, 
Struggliiifr,  and  blood,  and  shrieks  —  all  dimly  lades 
Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 
Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 
The  close  of  Troiiiis  and  Cre«sid  sweet. 
Hence,  pageant  history  !  hence,  gilded  cheat  ! 
Swart  planet  in  tlie  universe  of  deeds  ! 
Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 
Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory  ! 
Many  old  rotten-tim!)er'(I  boats  there  be 
Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 
To  goodly  vessels;  many  a  sail  of  pride. 
And  golden-keet'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 
But  wherefore  this  V      What  care,  though  owl  did  If/u 
About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast  V  ^ 

What  care,  though  striding  Ale.\ander  past 
The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 
Though  old  Ulvsscs  tortured  from  his  slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  '?  —  Juliet  leaning 
Amid  her  window-flowers,  —  sighing,  —  weaning 
Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow, 
Doth  more  avail  than  these  :  the  silver  flow 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den. 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.     Fearfully 
Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head. 
Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread, 
\Vithout  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 
The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest, 
In  chafing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 
Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear 
Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 
So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along, 
Like  legiou'd  soldiers.  \ 


64  ENDYM  lOy. 

Brain -siL'k  shepherd-prince 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  jiuarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice?     Or,  liave  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  upon  thy  morrows 
Ahas !  'tis  liis  oUl  frrief.     For  many  days, 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways: 
Through  wiUlerness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks; 
Counting  his  woe-worn  minutes,  by  tlie  strokes 
Of  the  lone  wood-cutter;  an-d  listening  still, 
Hour  after  hour,  to  eacii  lush-leaved  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring. 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold  :  a  wild  rose-tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy  :  lo  !  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water :  how! 
It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his  sight ; 
And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight 
A  golden  butterfly ;  upon  whose  wings 
There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  thirgs, 
For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad  EnJymion's  clasped  hands: 
Onward  it  flies.     From  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loosed,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  mauy  a  woodland  dun, 
Thrqugh  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dream* 
The  summer  time  away.     One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fiides  upon  him  ;  theo,  anew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen. 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men, 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-light  cadences 


END  YMION.  65 

Meltinn;  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet, 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.      Still  his  feet 
Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide, 
Until  it  reaeh'd  a^splashing  fountain's  side 
That,  near  a  cavernV  moutli,  for  ever  pour'd 
Unto  the  temperate  air ;  then  high  it  soar'd, 
And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip. 
As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 
The  crystal  spout-head  :  so  It  did,  with  touch 
Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch, 
Even  with  mealy  gald,  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disaj)pear 
So  fairy-qulcic,  was  strange  !     Bewildered, 
Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 
Of  covert  flowers  in  vain ;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.     What  gentle  tongue, 
What  whisperer,  disturb'd  his  gloomy  rest  ? 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pwbbly  margin,  and  she  stood 
'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood. 
To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist. 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 
Her  ringlets  round  her  fingers,  saying  :  "  Youth 
Too  long,  alas,  iiast  thou  starved  on  the  ruth. 
The  bitterness  of  love  :  too  long  indeed. 
Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.     Could  I  weed 
Thy  soui  of  care,  by  heavens,  I  would  offer 
All'  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphilrite  ;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish. 
Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish, 
Vermllion-taU'd,  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze; 
Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 
A  virgin-light  to  the  deep  ;  my  grotto-sands, 
Tawny  and  gold,  oozed  slowly  from  far  landa 
By  my  diligent  springs;  my  level  lilies,  sheila. 
My  charming-rod,  my  potent  river  spells ; 
Tes,  every  thing,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 
5 


gg  ENDYMION. 

Meander  gave  me,  —  for  I  bubbled  up 
To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 
But  woe  is^ine,  I  am  but  as  a  child 
To  gladden  thee  ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say, 
Is,  that  I  pity  thee  ;  tha^t  on  this  day 
I've  been  thy  guide ;  jthat  thou  must  wander  fal 
In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 
To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'en 
From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  paui. 
Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 
Why  It  IS  thus,  one  knows  in  heaven  above.:    | 
1  But,  a  poor  i^Liiiid,  I  guess  not.     Farewell  1 
I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell." 

Hereat  she  vanish'd  from  Endymion's  gaze, 
Who  brooded  o*er  the  water  in  amaze  : 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  poo) 
Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool, 
Quick  watcrtlies  and  gnats  were  si)ortin<T  still. 
And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.     The  wanderer, 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  olf  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down  ; 
And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown 
Glowwoi'ms  began  to  trim  their  starry  lamps. 
Thus  breathed  he  to  himself:  "  Whoso  encampi 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 
O  what  a  wretch  is  he  !  and  when  'tis  his, 
After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 
The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vile  1 
Yet,  for  him  there's  refreshment  even  in  toil : 
Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 
Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-bead  of  iloubt 
That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honey-combs  : 
Alas  !  be  finds  tliem  dry  ;  and  then  he  foams 
And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 

i  But  this  is  human  life  :  tiie  war,  the  deeds, 

I  The  disappointment,  t)ie  anxiety^ 


END  YM/ON. 


4 


61 


tnaji;ination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh, 
11  liunian  ;  bearing  in  tlieniselvcs  this  good, 
hat  they  are  still  the  air,  the  suliUf  food, 
jl'o  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  show 
(jHow  quiet  death  is.     Where  soil  is,  men  grow, 
Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  ibr  uie, 
There  is  no  deptii  to  striki!  in  :  I_ean_see_ 
Nought  earthly  worth  my  compassing  ;  so  stand 
Ul)on  a  mijity,  jutting  head  of"  land  — 
Alone  ?     No,  no  ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute, 
When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to  't, 
I'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak, 
With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek. 
But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thi'iee-seen  love, 
Than  be  —  1  care  not  M'hat.     O  meekest  dove 
Of  heaven  !  O  Cynthia,  ten-times  bright  and  fair  , 
From  thy  blue  tlirone,  now  filling  all  the  air, 
"GtaiTce  but  one  little  beam  of  temper'd  light 
Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 
And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scared  ! 
Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen  ;  one  torment  spared, 
Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery. 
Worse  than  the  torment's  self:  but  rather  tie 
Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 
My  love's  far  dwelling.     Though  the  ])layful  roul 
Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou, 
Too  keen  in, beauty.  tbrHiy  silver  prow 
Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream. 
O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 
My  madness  im])Ious;  for,  by  all  the  stars 
That  tend  thy  bidtling,  I  do  think  the  bars 
That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst  —  that  1  • 
Am  sailing  with  thee  through  the  (lizzv  sky  ! 
How  beautiful  thou  art !     The  world  now  deep  ! 
How  trenuilous-dazzlinglv  the  wheels  sweep 
Around  their  axle  I     Then  these  gleaming  reins. 
How  lithe  !     When  this  thy  chariot  attains 
Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 


V 


/' 


,'«H 


i 

// 


S8  ENDYMION. 

Those  twilight    eyes  ?      Those   eyes  !  ~  my  spirit 

fails  ; 
Dear  godJcss.  help  J  or  the  wide  gaping  air 
Will  gulf  me  —  help  ! "  —  At  this,  with  madden'd 

stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips,  he  stood  ; 
Like  old  Deucalion  nioiintain'd  o'er  the  flood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 
And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was  borne 
A  voice,  he  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone  ; 
Nor  sigh  of  bis,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd  moan 
Had    more   been    heard.      Thus   swell'd   jt   forth  r 
"^         "  Jle.sc.end, 

Toung  mountaineer!  descend  where  alleys  bend 
Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world  ! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold  ;  day  by  day  hast  been 
A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 
Their  marble  being  :  now,  as  deep  profound 
As  those  are  liigh,  descend  !     He  ne'er  is  crown'd 
With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
1  Where  airy  voices  lead :  so  through  the  hollow, 
iTlie  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend  ! " 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection  :  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  mad- 
ness. 

'Twas  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
V'The  region  ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up  ;  a  gleaming  melancholy  ; 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems ; 


KNDYMION.  6S 

One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 

Ay,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold, 

Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told, 

With  all  Its  lines  abrupt  atid  angular  : 

Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor  star, 

Through  a  vast  autre  ;  tiicn  the  metal  woof 

Like  vulean's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 

Curves  hugely  :  now,  far  in  tlie  deep  abyss, 

It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 

Fancy  into  belief:  anon  it  leads 

Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 

Vexing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change  ; 

Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 

Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 

Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 

Now  Airetli  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 

Towers  like  an  ocean-cliff,  and  whence  he  seeth 

A  hundred  waterfalls,  wliose  voices  come 

But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  numb 

His  bosom  grew,  when  first  ho,  far  away, 

Described  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  f'rav 

Old  Darkness  from  his  throne  :  'twas  like  the  suti 

Uprisen  o'ei-  chaos  :  and  with  such  a  stun 

Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it, 

He  saw  not  fiercer  wonders —  past  the  wit 

Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those 

Who,  when  tiiis  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close. 

Will  be  its  high  icniembrancers  :   who  they  ? 

The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 

For  Greece  and  Kn^land.     While  astonishment 

With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 

Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 

A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 

In  sacre^  custom,  that  he  well  nigh  fear'd 

To  search  it  inwards ;  whence  far  off  appear'd. 

Through  a  long  pillar'd  vista,  a  fair  shiine, 

And,  just  beyond,  on  light  ti{)toe  divine, 

A  quiver'd  Diaii.     Stepping  awfully, 


70  ENDYMION. 

Tlie  youth  approadi'd  ;  oft  turninsi  liis  veil'd  eye 

Down  sideloiifj  aisles,  and  into  niches  oUl : 

And,  when  more  near  against  tlie  marble  cold 

He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead, 

Roused  by  his  whispering  footsteps,  nuirmur'd  faint 

And  long  lie  traversed  to  and  fro,  to  acquivint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe  ; 

Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 

Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim, 

To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim 

There,  when  new  wonders  ceased  to  iloat  before, 

And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self! 

A  mad  pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf, 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-brier, 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire, 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing. 

What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  caught 
The  goal  of  consciousness  ?     Ah,  'tis  the  thought, 
The  deadly  feel  of  solitude  :  for  lo ! 
lie  cannot  see  the  h(.avens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivei-s,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor,  up-piled, 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west, 
Like  herded  elephants ;  nor  felt,  nor  prest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  sUunberous  air; 
But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharged  with  grief,  away, 
Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay, 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear? 
"  No  !"  exclaim'd  be,  "  why  should  I  tarry  here  ?" 
No!  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 
At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 
His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 
Warminac  and  jilowin£r  strong  in  the  belief 

o  c  o  o 


ENDYMION^.  71 

Of  help  from  DIan  :  so  that  when  a^iain 

Ho,  (■au;xht  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain, 

Moving  m.-^ro  near  the  wliile  :  "  O  Haunter  chaste 

Of  river  side?,  and  wood-;,  and  heathy  waste, 

Where  with  thy  silver  bow  and  arrows  ke<'n 

Art  thou  now  forested  ?     O  woodland  Queen, 

What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  woes  ? 

Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 

Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?    Throuprh  what  dark  tree 

Glimmers  thy  ciescent  ?     Wheresoe'er  it  be, 

'Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven  :  thou  dost  taste 

Freedom  as  none  ean  taste  it,  nor  dost  waste 

Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements; 

But,  findinrr  in  our  jrrecn  earth  sweet  contents, 

There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 

It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me. 

An  exiled  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name  ! 

Within  my  breast  there  lives  a  choking:  flame  — 

O  h't  me  cool  it  zephyr-boupjhs  amonn; ' 

A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue  — 

O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  runninjr  springs! 

Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings  — 

()  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note ! 

Before  mine  eyes  thick  film?  and  shadows  float  — 

O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  lifrht ! 

Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ? 

O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice  I 

Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice  ' 

0  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice ! 

If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 

O  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers  !  — 

Young  goddess  !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers! 

Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep  1 " 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleaf 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  liut  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  lieavily  a^'ain, 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 


72  END  Y3II0N. 

And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face, 

Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 

But  'twas  not  long;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 

To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide 

To  margin  sallows,  were  the  leaves  he  spied, 

And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crown* 

Upheaping  through  the  slab  :  refreshment  drowns 

Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide  — 

Nor  in  one  spot  alone  ;  the  floral  pride 

In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 

Before  his  footstej)s ;  as  when  heaved  anew 

Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthen'd  wave  to  the  shore, 

Down  whose  green  back  the  short-lived  foam,  all 

hoar. 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence. 

Increasinir  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense, 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes  ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  with  his  hand  among  the  sweets  : 
Onward  he  goes  —  he  stops  —  his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear  as  the  faint  charm 
Of_  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still  alarm, 
This  sleepy  music,  forced  him  walk  tiptoe  : 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 
Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles ; 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 
Of  throned  Apollo,  could  breathe"  back  the  lyre 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man, 
Who  loved  —  and  music  slew  not  ?     'Tis  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest ; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth, 
By  one  consuming  flame :  it  doth  immerse 
And  sufibcate  true  blessings  in  a  curse. 
Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss, 


•=— L 


ENDYMION.  78 

Is  misorablo.     'Twas  even  so  witli  tliia 
Dew-dropping  ■melody,  in  the  Carian's  oar; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten  clear 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  Iiad  gone, 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  wliere  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  head 
Brushing,  awaken'd  :  then  the  sounils  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain 
Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood  ; 
For  as  the  snnset  peeps  into  a  wood, 
So  saw  he  panting  liglit,  and  towards  it  went 
Throngh  winding  alleys;  and  lo,  wonderment  I 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there, 
Cupids  a-slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone. 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle-wallM,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  llglit,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy, 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside  : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride, 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty  ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth, 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach: 
And>6overlIds  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  rf])e  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  lilm  In  a  thousand  folds  — 
Not  hiding  u[)  an  Apollonian  curve  \ 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light; 
But  rather,  "iving:  them  to  the  fiU'd  sisjht 
Officiously.     Sideway  his  face  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed. 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  jiout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-li])p'd  rose.     Above  his  head, 


74  END  YM I  ON. 

Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honours  wed 
To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  hiin  j^rew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue. 
Together  intertwined  and  trammell'd  fresh  • 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh, 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries;  and  woodbine, 
Of  velvet-loaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine  ; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flusli ; 
The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush; 
And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.      JHard  by. 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touch'd  the  strings, 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  i\{i\v, 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair  ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering-wise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 

At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more. 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Until  impatient  in  embarrassment, 
He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  feather'd  lyrist,  who  straightway, 
Smiling,  thus  whisper'd  :  "  Though  from  upper  d»y 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honour. 
When  some  ethereal  and  high-favouring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense; 
As  now  'tis  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 
Was  I  in  no  wise  startled.     So  recline 
Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine, 
Alive  with  sparkles  —  never,  I  aver, 
Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager. 
So  cool  a  purple  :  taste  these  juicy  pears. 


ENDYMION.  74 

Sent  me  by  snd  Vfrtnmniis,  when  liis  fears 

Were  liisli  about  I'omona :  here  is  cream, 

Decpeninji  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam; 

Sweeter  tlian  tbat  nurse  Amalthea  skinmi'd 

For  the  boy  Jupiter:  and  here,  undininiM 

By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooniinfr  plums 

Ready  to  melt  between  an  infmt's  fjuiiis : 

And  here  is  manna  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees, 

In  starlight,  by  tiie  three  Ilesperides. 

Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 

Of  all  these  thinjjs  around  us."     He  did  so, 

Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre  ; 

And  ihus:^'  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 

By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 

For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  stTOve  to  bind 

Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doating  self.y 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  '?  but,  fond  elf. 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 

Faint  through  his  careless  arms ;  content  to  see 

An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 

Content,  O  tool  !  to  make  a  cold  retreat. 

When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn, 

J^ay  sorrowing  ;  when  every  tear  was  born 

Of  diverse  passion  ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 

Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  (juick  sighs 

Came  vcx'd  and  .pettish  through  her  nostrils  small. 

Hush  1  no  exclaim  —  yet,  justly  might'st  thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head.  —  I  was  half  glad, 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad. 

When  tiie  boar  tusk'd  him:  so  away  she  Hew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 

Inunortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard  ; 

Wiiereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'cl 

Each  summer-lime  to  life.     Lo  !  this  is  he, 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep 

Ay,  sleep  ;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 

Orer  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 


70 


END  Y Ml  ON. 


Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power, 

Medicined  death  to  a  lenjthen'd  drowsiness : 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 

In  all  this  quiet  luxury  ;  and  hath  set 

Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let. 

To   watch    his   slumber   through.     'Tis    well    ntgb 

pass'd, 
Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 
She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 
The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 
Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 
Look,  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 
Stand  anxious  :  see  !  behold  !  "—This  clamant  word 
Broke  throur^h  the  careful  silence  ;  for  they  heard 
A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  flutter'd 
Pigeons  and  doves  :  Adonis  something  miitter'd, 
The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his  thigh 
Lay  dormant,  moved  convulsed  and  gradually 
Up  to  his  forehead.     Then  there  was  a  hum 
Of_  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "  Come  !  come  ! 
Arise  !  awake  !     Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 
Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 
Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch  : 
Rise,  Cupids!  or  we'll  give  the  bluebell  pinch 
To  your  dimpled  ai'ins.     Once  more  sweet  life  be- 
gin ! " 
At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  in, 
Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists, 
And  doubling  overhead  their  little  fists 
In  backward  yawns.      But  all  were  soon  alive  : 
For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 
In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  ftiir, 
So  from  the  arbour  roof  dcjwn  swell'd  an  air 
Odorous  and  enlivening  ;  making  all 
To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudh'  call 
For  their  sweet  queen:    when    lo !    the    wreathed 

gi-een 
Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 


4 


END7MI0N.  77 

Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne, 

AVliose  silent  wIk'l'Is,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  mom, 

Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew,  —  which  falling  chill 

On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 

Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 

Soon    were    the    white    doves    plain,    with    neckj 

stretch'd  out, 
And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent: 
And  soon,  retiirninu;  from  love's  banishment, 
Queen  Venus  leaning  downward  open-arni'd  : 
Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  charm'd 
A  tumult  to  liis  heart,  and  a  new  life 
Into  his  eyes.     Ah,  miserable  strife. 
But  for  her  comforting!  unhappy  sight. 
But  meeting  her  blue  orbs  !     Who,  who  can  write 
Of  these  first  minutes  ?     The  unchariest  muse 
To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes  coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruflled  every  spirit  there, 
Saving  love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness  :  awfully  he  stands  ; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands; 
No  sight  can  bear  the  liirhtninji  of  his  bow  ; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 
What  themselves  think  of  it;  from  forth  his  eyes 
There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues  and  dyes 
A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 
Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 
Of  his  fair  eyes  run  liquid  through  their  souls. 
Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 
The  burning  prayer  within  him;  so,  bent  low, 
He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 
But  Venus,  bending  foi-ward,  said  :  "  ]\Iy  child, 
Favour  this  gentle  youth  ;  his  days  are  Avild 
With  love  —  he  —  but  alas  !  too  well  I  see 
Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 
All !  smile  not  so,  my  son  :  I  tell  thee  true. 
That  when  tlirough  lieavy  hours  I  used  to  rue 


■  lumi 


78  ENDYMIOM. 

The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Aden*, 

This  stranger  aye  I  pitied.     For  upon 

A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 

Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 

For  this  my  love  :  lor  vexing  Mars  had  teased 

Me  even  to  tears  :  tiiem-e,  when  a  little  eased, 

Down-looking,  vacant,  througli  a  hazy  wood, 

I  saw  this  youth  as  he  des[)aii-ing  stood: 

Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind 

Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 

Over  his  sullen  eyes:  I  saw  him  throw 

Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 

Death  had  come  sudden  ;  for  no  jot  lie  moved, 

Yet  mutter'd  wildly.     I  could  hear  he  loved 

Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 

Had   zoned  her  through   tlie   night.     Thc^re  is  no 

trace 
Of  this  in  heaven  :  I  have  mark'd  each  cheek, 
And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek; 
And  that  of  all  things  'tis  kept  secretest. 
Endyniion  !  one  day  thou  wilt  be  blest : 
•So  still  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 
Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweiiLjends. 
'Tis  a  concealment  needl'ul  in  extreme  ; 
And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 
Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.     Now  adieu  1 
Here  nmst  we  leave  thee." —  At  these  words  uj)  Hew 
The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  car. 
Up  went  the  hum  celestial.     High  afar 
The  Latmain  saw  them  minish  into  nought; 
And,  when  all  were  clear  vanish'd,  still  he  caught 
A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 
\Vlien  all  was  darken'd,  with  iEtnean  throe 
The  earth  closed  —  gave  a  solitary  moan  — 
And  left  him  once  again  in  twilijrht  lone. 

He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast, 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past, 


ENDYMION.  78 

AntJ  he  in  loneliness :  he  felt  assured 
Of  liappy  times,  when  all  lie  had  endured 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  miLrlity  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hii-s 
Throuiih  caves,  and  palaces  of  motlled  ore, 
(Idid  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquois  floor, 
Black  polish'd  porticos  of  awt'ul  shade. 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
L('adin<r  afar  past  wild  mai^nificence. 
Spiral  throiiiili  rutriii'dest  loopholes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Knormous  chasms,  where  all  (bam  and  roar. 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds  ; 
Then  heighlen'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  I'oun  tains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear ;  but  at  the  splasii, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  inclose 
His  iliamond  path  with  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alike,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound, 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tmnults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  of  Thetis.     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight;  for,  every  miimte's  space. 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace : 
Sometimes  like  dclicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines;  then  weeping  trees, 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind. 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies. 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  llcpiid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare  ; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.     He  bade  a  loath  farewell 
To  these  founts  Prot<)an,  passing  gulf,  and  dell, 


80  ENDYMION. 

And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes, 

Half  seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  grisly  gapea 

Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead 

A  vaulted  dome  like  heaven's  far  bespread 

With  starlight  gems :  ay,  all  so  huge  and  strange, 

The  solitarj'  felt  a  hurried  change 

Working  within  him  into  something  dreary,  — 

Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost  and  weary. 

And  purblind  amid  fo2;(ry  midniaht  wolds. 

But  he  revives  at  once  :  for  who  beholds 

New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  mental  slough? 

Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below. 

Came  mother  Cybele  !  alone  —  alone  — 

In  sombre  chariot ;  dark  foldings  thrown 

About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale, 

^Vith  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  lions  hale 

The  sluggish  wheels;  solemn  their  toothed  maws, 

Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 

Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 

Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 

This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 

In  another  gloomv  arch. 

Wherefore  delay, 
Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  further  trace 
The  diamond  path  ?     And  does  it  indeed  end 
Abrupt  in  middle  air?     Yet  earthward  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Ju])iter  cloud-borne 
Call  ardently- !     He  was  indeed  wayworn  ; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  way  was  lost; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bow'd,  and  there  crost 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose  winga, 
^V^ithout  one  impious  word,  himself  he  flings. 
Committed  to  the  darkne.-^s  and  the  gloom  : 
Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant  doom, 
Swift  as  a  f  ithoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Throu<rh  unknown  things;  till  exhaled  asphodel, 


ENDYMION.  81 

And  lose,  witb  spicy  fannings  interbreathed, 
Came  swelling  f'ortli  where   little  caves  were 

wreatlied 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem'd 
Large  honeycombs  of"  green,  and  freshly  teem'd 
With  airs  delicious.     In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewell  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown 
With  golden  moss.     His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  tor  pleasure  ;  'bove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable ;  his  tread 
Was  Hes|)erean  ;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres; 
A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes; 
The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 
And  stirr'd  them  faintly.     Verdant  cave  and  cell 
He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  swell 
Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  "Alas!" 
Said  he,  "  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 
Away  in  solitude  ?     And  nmst  they  wane, 
Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain. 
Without  an  echo  ?     Then  shall  I  be  left 
So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft! 
Yet  still  I  feel  immortal !     O  my  love. 
jvij_hj-pn'''  "f  lif'ii  "'liiTf  artTImn  ?     High  abosc, 
Dancin<r  before  the  mornin'r 


Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven. 
Old  Atlas'  children  ?     ^ii-t  a  maid..ol"-tlia-iv»tep%— 
()ne  of  "liell-wiinliii;,'  Trit^'i'ir  'M-iglitrhairM  daiigh- 

teraJ 
Or  art,  ipfp.^^i;:i.lo  I  ;i  nyiiiph  of  Plan's,     «^ — 
Weaving  a  coronal  ot  lender  scions 
For  very  idleness  ?     AVhere'er  thou  art, 
Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 
Into  thine  arms ;  to  scare  Aurora's  train. 
And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning ;  o'er  the  main 
To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 


g2  END  YMION. 

From  thy  sea-foamy  cradle ;  or  to  doff 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  'mid  fresh  leavesi 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  flee 

To  her  entrancements  :  hither  sleep  awhile  ! 

Hither  most  gentle  sleep  !  and  soothing  foil 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 

■'        Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 
.'      With  power  to  dream  deliciously  ;  so  wound 
nI     Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where 
He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  the  air 
Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O  bliss  ! 
A  naked  waist:  "  Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this?" 
A  well-known  voice  sigh'd, "  Sweetest,  here  am  1 1* 
At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  dotinj^  cry 
They  trembled  to  each  other.  —  Helicon ! 
O  fountain'd  hill !     Old  Homer's  Helicon  ! 
That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 
These  sorry  pages ;  then  the  verse  would  soar 
And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 
Orer  his  nested  young :  but  all  is  dark 
Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 
Exhales  in  mists  to  heaven.     Ay,  the  count 
Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up ;  the  scroll 
Is  folded  by  the  Muses;  the  bright  roll 
Is  in  Apollo's  hand :  our  dazed  eyes 
Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies : 
The  world  has  done  its  duty.     Yet,  oh  yet, 
Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set. 
These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep 
That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 
A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 
Long  time  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 
Question  that  thus  it  was;  long  time  they  lay 
Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away ; 


END  YM  J  ON.  83 

Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 

To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 

Two  bubbling  si)rings  of"  talk  from  their  sweet  lips. 

"  O  known  Unknown  !  from  whom  my  being  sips 

Such  darling  essence,  wherelbre  may  I  not 

Be  ever  in  these  arms  ?  in  this  sweet  spot 

Pillow  my  chin  for  ever  ?  ever  press 

These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess? 

Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 

That  breath  about  my  eyes  ?     Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 

Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed  — 

Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 

My  lonely  madness.     Speak,  my  kindest  fair! 

Is  —  is  it  to  be  so  ?     No !     Who  will  dare 

To    pluck    thee   from   me  ?     And,  of  thine   own 

will. 
Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.     Still 
Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer  —  now 
How  can  we  part  ?     Elysium  !     Who  art  thou  ? 
Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here, 
Or  lilt  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  spliere  ? 
Enchantress  !  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace, 
By  tlie  most  soft  complexion  of  thy  face, 
Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses!  twinkling  eyes, 
And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereignties  — 
These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar-wine. 

The  passion  " "  O  loved  Ida  the  divine  ! 

Endymion  !  dearest!     Ah,  unhappy  me! 

His  soul  will  'scape  us  —  O  felicity  ! 

How  he  does  love  me  !     His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the   very  tune  of  love  —  how  sweet,  sweet, 

sweet ! 
Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die; 
Revive,  or  tliese  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 
In  tranced  dullness ;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 
Affright  this  lethargy  !     I  cannot  (juell 
Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 
My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 


84  ENDTMWN. 

Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again. 
What !  dost  thou  move  ?  dost  kiss  ?  O  bliss !  O  paii. 
I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  conceive ; 
And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 
My  soul  of  any  rest :  yet  ruust  I  hence  ; 
Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 
Uplift  thee  ;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own  . 
Myself  to  tliee.     Ah,  dearest !  do  not  groan, 
Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy. 
And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.     O  that  I 
Had  done  it  already !  that  the  dreadful  smiles 
At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles, 
Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height. 
And  from  all  serious  Gods ;  tliat  our  delight 
Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone  ! 
And  wherefore  so  ashamed  ?     'Tis  but  to  atone 
-   For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes  : 
V     Yet  must  I  be  a  coward  !   I'Borror  rushes 
"2     Too  palpable  before  me  —  the  sad  look 
"^     Of  Jove  —  IMinerva's  start  —  no  bosom  shook 
With  awe  of  purity) —  no  Cupid  pinion 
^   In  reverence  veil'u  —  my  crystalline  dominion 
^  Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity  1 
5^  But  what  is  this  to  love  ?     Oh  !  I  could  fly 
^    With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  powers, 
•''    So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  hours, 
Press  me  so  sweetly.     Now  I  swear  at  once 
That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce  — 
^     Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown  — 
(^Oh  !  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 
In  chastityj  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing, 
While  eve?j'  eye  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 
With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.     Sweet  love  ! 
I  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove. 
Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.     Now  a  soft  kiss  — 
Ay,  by  that  kiss,  T  vow  an  endless  bliss, 
An  immortality  of  passion  's  thine  : 
Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 


J 


END  I'Ml  OiS.  8i 

Of  heaven  ambrosial;  and  we  will  sha<le 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade; 

And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky, 

And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy. 

My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds  ! 

O  let  me  melt  into  thee!  let  the  sounds 

Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth  ; 

Let  us  entwine  hoveringly  !     O  dearth 

Of  human  wonls  !  roughness  of  mortal  s])eeeh  f 

Lispings  em|)yrean  will  I  sometimes  teach 

Thine   honey'd  tongue  —  lute-breathing>   wliiidi    I 

gasp 
To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 
Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness  —  I  am  pain'd, 
Endymion  :   woe  !  woe  !  is  grief  contain'd 
In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life  V  "  — 
Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 
Melted  into  a  languor.     He  return'd 
Entranced  vows  and  tears. 

Ye  who  have  yearn'd 

With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and  pity 

For  the  mere  sake  of  truth  ;  as  'tis  a  ditty 

Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  'twas  told 

By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old  ; 

And  then  the  forest  told  it  in  a  dream 

To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam 

A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journoyin'j: 

To  Phoebus'  shrine ;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 

His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 

And  after,  straiglit  in  that  inspired  place 

He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air, 

(livinji  it  universal  freedom.     Tliere 

Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears 

Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.     The  legend  cbeon 

Yon  sentinel  stars ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 

Must  surely  be  self-doom'd  or  he  will  rue  it : 

For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the  heart] 


86  END  YM ION. 

Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 

Should  be  engulfed  in  the  eddying  wind. 

As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 

A  resting-place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain  ; 

Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane  — 

And  'tis  but  echoed  from  departing  souml, 

Tliat  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 

Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep.  — 

Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers.  — 
Endymion  awoke,  tliat  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  paining  on  his  ear:  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  liead. 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.     Love's  madness  he  had  known : 
0)  Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 

Moanlngs  had  burst  from  him  ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away  :  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voiced  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 
No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars  : 
The  lyre  of  his  soul  ^Eolian  tuned 
Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  communed 
With  melancholy  thought :   O  lie  had  swoon'd 
^     y/^^/   TjriinkeriJ'rom  pleasure's  nipple  !   ajiiLJvisjQi^ 
j/f'f    I  I    HenceToi'lh  was  dove-like.  —  Loth  was  he  to  move 
Trom  th(>  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 
'Twas  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 
In  mufiling  hands.     So  temper'd,  out  he  stray'd 
H  >lf  seeing  visions  that  might  have  disniay'd 
Alscto's  serpents;  ravishments  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 
Over  eclipsing  eyes  :  and  at  the  last 
It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 
,  O'erstudded  with  a  thousand,  thousand  pearls, 
And  crimson-mouthed  shells  with  stubborn  curls, 
Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  ihc  hulk 


■f 


ENDTMION.  81 

fn  wliicli  whales  harbour  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 

A^'aiiist  an  endless  storm.      Moreover  too, 

Fi'sli-seniblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue, 

Ready  to  snort  their  streams.     In  this  cool  wonder 

Endv'mion  sat  down,  and  'j.''"^'^  'o  ponder 

On  all  his  life  :   his  youth,  up  to  the  day 

When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  garlands  gay, 

He  stepp'd  upon  his  shepherd  throne  :  the  look 

Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook, 

And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there: 

Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought  fair, 

With  every  friend  and  fcllow-woodlander — 

Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.     Then  the  spu" 

Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds:  his  ])lans 

To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans  . 

That  wondrous  night  \  the  great  Pan-festival . 

His  sister's  sorrow';  and  his  wanderings  all, 

Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd  : 

Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  flush'd 

High  with  excessive  love.    "  And  now,"  thought  he, 

"  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 

Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 

Now  1  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  core, 

All  other  depths  are  shallow  :  essences, 

Once  spiritual,  arc  like  muddy  lees. 

Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  root. 

And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 

Into  the  bloom  of  heaven  ;  other  light, 

Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  blight 

The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark. 

Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.     Hark  I 

My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these  shellfi  ; 

Or  they  are  but  the  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 

Of  noises  far  away  V  —  list !  "  —  Hereupon 

He  kept  an  anxious  ear.     The  humming  ton« 

Came  louder,  and  behold,  tliere  as  he  lay, 

On  either  side  outgush'il,  with  misty  spray, 

A  copious  spring  ;  and  both  together  dash'd 


88 


END  YMION. 


/ 


Swift,  mad,  fantastii)  round  the  rocks,  and  lash  d 
Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty  <irot, 
LeaviniT  a  tricklino:  dew.     At  last  they  shot 
Down  from  the  ceiHnjj's  height,  pouring  a  noise 
As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes  poise 
Upon  the  last  few  steps,  and  with  spent  force 
Along  the  ground  they  took  a  winding  course. 
Endymion  follow'd  —  for  it  seem'd  that  one 
Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun  — 
Follow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well  nigh 
He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery, — 
And  was  now  rapt  in  tender  hoverings 
Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.     Ah  !  what  is  it  sings 
His  dream  away  ?     What  melodies  are  these  ? 
They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees, 
Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.     Give  ear  I 

"  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine  ?     Great  Dian,  why, 
Wliy  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer  ?     O  that  1 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now, 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
:  To  entice  her  to  a  dive  !  then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 
O  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun, 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 
In  amorous  i-Iilets  down  her  shrinking  form  I 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 
Touch  raptured  !  —  see  how  painfully  I  flow  : 
Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe. 
Stay,  stay  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  leail, 
A  happy  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 
Where  all  that  beauty  snared  me."  —  "  Cruel  god 
Desist !  or  my  ofTcnded  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains  :  —  tease  me  not 
With  syren  words  —  Ah,  have  I  really  got 
Buch  power  to  madden  thee  ?     And  is  it  true  - 


ENDTMION.  8» 

Away,  away,  or  I  ^liall  dearly  rue 

Mv  very  thoughts  :  in  mercy  then  away, 

Kindest  Alpheus.  for  should  I  obey 

Mv  own  dear  will,  'twould  be  a  deadly  bane."  —  ^ 

"  (),  Oread-Queen  !    would  that  thou  liadst  a  pain 

Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal."  —  "  Alas,  I  burn, 

I  shudder  —  iientle  river,  get  thee  hence. 

Al[)heus!  thou  enchanter  1  every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and   innocent  floods, 

Ripe  fruits,  and  lone'ly  couch,  contentment  gave  ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  ])anting  glow 

Grew  strong  within  me  :  wherefore  serve  me  so, 

And  call  it  love  ?     Alas  !  'twas  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eyes 

Amid  the  thrush's  song.     Away  I  avaunt ! 

0  'twas  a  cruel  thing."  —  "  Now  thou  dost  taunt 
So  softly,  Arctlmsa,  that  T  think 

If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink, 
Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.      Innocent  maid 
Stifle  thine  heart  no  more  ;  —  nor  be  afraid 
Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities 
Will  shade  us  with  their  Avings.     Those  fitful  sigha 
'Tis  almost  death  to  hear :   O  let  me  pour 
A  dewy  balm  upon  them  !  —  fear  no  more, 
Sweet  Arethusa  !   Plan's  self  must  feel.. 
Sometimi's.  these  very  panizs.     Dear  maiden,  steal 
"Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 
These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course, 
From  llie  green  sea  up  to  my  hiddt-n  source 
Al)out  Arcadian  forests  ;  and  will  show 
The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow 
Through  mossy  rocks ;  where  'mid  exuberant  green 
1  roam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Than  Saturn  in  his  e.xile  ;  where,  I  brim 


90  £NDYMION. 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  (inyriads  of  bees 

Buzz  from  their  honey'd  wings  :  and  thou  shouhlst 

please 
Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 
Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 
Doff  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliclousness. 
And  let  us  Le  thus  comforted  ;  unless 
Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 
Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam. 
And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands."  — 
"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?     Plan  stands 
Severe  before  me  :  persecuting  fate  L 
Unhappy  Arethusa!  thou  wast  late 
A  huntress  free  in  —  "     At  this,  sudden  fell 
Those  two  sad  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 
The  Latmian  listen'd,  but  he  heard  no  more, 
Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 
Of  that  dark  gulf  he  wept,  and  said  :  "  I  urge 
Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage, 
By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage. 
If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains ; 
And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 

He  turn'd  —  there  was  a  whelming  sound  —  he 
stept. 
There  was  a  cooler  light ;  and  so  he  kept 
Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo  ! 
More  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go. 
The  visions  of  the  earth  were  gone  and  fled  — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


ENDYMION.  91 


BOOK  in. 

TiiKRE  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 

Willi  most  prevailing  tinsel  :  who  unpen 

Tlieir  b:iaiii<r  vanities,  to  browse  away 

Tlio  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 

From  human  pastures;  or,  O  torturing  fact  I 

Who,  tiirougii  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 

Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 

Our   gold   and   ripe-ear'd   hopes.     VVith    not    one 

tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendour,  not  a  sight 
Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  .still  are  dight 
By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empur])led  vests, 
And  crowns,  and  turbans.      With  unladen  breasts, 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  (hey  j)roudly  mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account, 
Their     tiptop     nothings,    their    dull     skies,    their 

tiu'ones  — 
Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 
Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabour'd  drums, 
And  sudden  cannon.      Ah  !  how  all  this  hums, 
In  waket"ul  ears,  like  ujiroar  past  and  gone  — 
Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 
And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. — 
Are  then  rcfialities  all  <iilded  masks  ? 
No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 
But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell, 
Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfined, 
Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind, 
And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 
To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements. 
Ay,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  FatH 
xV  thousand  Powers  keep  ridigious  state. 
In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourne; 
And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  urn, 
Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 


92  EN DY MI  ON. 

Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ali,  few  ! 
Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  (rlobe  — 
Few,  who  witli  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 
Our  piece  of  heaven  —  whose  benevolence 
Shakes  hand  with  our  own  Ceres ;  every  sense 
Fining  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude, 
As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And  by  the  feud 
'Twixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 
Eterne  Apollo  !  that  thy  Sister  fair 
Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 
When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west. 
She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne. 
And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone , 
As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 
As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet!  was  not  bent 
Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart ; 
As  if  the  minist'ring  stars  kept  not  apart, 
Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages. 
O  Moon  !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 
Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in  : 
O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 
'  The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 
Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 
Kissing  (lead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 
Couch'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes  ; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Has  thy  fair  foce  within  its  tranquil  ken, 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house  ;  —  The  mighty  deeps, 
Tin;  monstrous  sea  is  thine  —  the  myriad  sea  I 
O  Moon,   for  spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee, 
And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  ctuabrous  load* 


r 


ENDTMION.  99 

Cynthia  !  wliere  art  tliou  now  ?     What  far  abode 
Of  ;^reen  or  silvery  bower  cloth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?     Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  oheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale  :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears  who  weeps  for  thee  I     Where  dost  thou 

sigh  ? 
Ah  !  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye, 
Or,  what  a  thing  is  love  !     'Tis  She,  but  lo  I 
How  changed,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  woe  I 
She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  her  loveliness 
Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue :  yet  there's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  oil"  yon  cape  of  trees, 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 
O,  not  so  idle  !  for  down  glancing  thence, 
She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 
O'erwhehning  wafer-courses  ;  scaring  out 
The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright* 

ning 
Their  savage  eyes  witlTunaccustom'd  lightning. 
Where  will  the  splendour  be  content  to  reach  ? 
O  love  !  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 
.^•angc  jouri>eyings !     Wherever  beauty  dwells, 
In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells, 
In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun, 
Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  tis  won. 
Amid  his  toil  thou  gavest  Leander  breath ; 
Thou     leddest    Orpheus    through    the    gleams    ci 

death ; 
Thou  madest  Fluto  bear  thin  element : 
And  now,  O  winged  Chiet'tain  !  thou  hast  sent 
A  moonbeam  to  the  deep,  deep  water-world,  A: 

To  find  Endymion.  I; 

ft    *  ' 

On  gold  sand  impearl'd  U 

With  lily  shells,  and  pebGtes  nifflcy" white, 
Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  soothed  her  ligat 


t 


94  END7MI0N. 

AgaiQsthispallitl-fiifte  :  he  felt  the  charm 

To  breatBTessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 

Of  his  heart's  blood  :  'twas  very  sweet ;  he  sfayM 

His  wandering  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 

His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  strajjglinix  weeds, 

To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  fresliening  beads, 

Lash'd  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 

And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 

Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 

Were  lifted  from  tiie  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 

Into  sweet  air ;  and  sober'd  morning  came 

Meekly  through  billows  :  —  when  like  taper-flame 

Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air, 

He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 

Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd. 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet;  save  thin^fs 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breastplates  large 
Of  gone  sea-warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe  ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  luimau  hand;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mouldering  scrolls, 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
Wiio    first    were    on    the    earth ;    and    sculptures 

rude 
In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox  ;  —  then  skeletons  of  man, 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan, 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  iiim  ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chased  away  that  heaviness, 
He  might  have  died  -.  but  now,  with  cheered  feel. 


END  FM J  ON. 


9f 


Hp  onward  kept ;  wooinp;  those  thoiifl;hts  to  steal 
About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 


"  What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon  !  that  thou  shouldat 

move 
My  heart  so  potently  ?     When  yet  a  child 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  tin;  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 
Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously  : 
No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance. 
But  when  ray  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance: 
No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 
Until  thou  liftedst  up  thine  eytilids  fine  : 
In  sowing-time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 
Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake; 
And,  in  the  sunnner-tide  of  blossoming. 
No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 
If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 
Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 
By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  end ; 
And  as  I  jirrew  in  vears,  still  didst  thou  blend 
With  all  my  ardours  ;  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 
Thou  wast  the  mountain-top  —  the  sage's  pen  — 
The  poet's  harp  —  the  voice  of  friends  —  the  sun— 
Thou  wast  the  river  —  thou  wast  glory  won  ; 
Thou    wast    my    clarion's    blast  —  thou    wast    mj 

steed  — 
My  goblet  full  of  wine  —  my  topmost  deed  :  — 
Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Mocn  J 
O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 
My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 
On  somi!  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  bill 
Myself  to  immortality  :  I  prest 
Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 


96  ENDYMION.  * 

But  ggBtlix^iMJberejcame.ajieaieiLMiaa^r- 
Tgrv"straiiL^e  love  caiue  —  Felicity's  abyssj. 
_She  came,  and  tlmn  diilst  fade   rikI  t;ule.  away- 
Yet  not  entirely ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 
Has  hp.p.n  an  iindp.r-pnssion  to  this  houx. 
Novv  I  begin  to  feel  tliiiie  orby  power 
Is  coming  t'resli  upon  me :   O  be  kind  ! 
Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  blind 
My  sovereign  vision.  — ■.  Dearest  love,  forgive 
That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live"!  — ^     ' 
Pardon  me.  airy  planet,  that  I  prize. 
Qnp.  t.hoii.^rKt  hpynntl  Hiin..  aiyftnf  luxuries! 
Hnw  far  hpynnd  !"     At  this  a  Surprised  start 
Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart; 
For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 
How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things  fair, 
He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 
An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 
Upon  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat, 
And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 
Of  weeds  were  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet ; 
And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 
A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 
O'erwrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest  groans 
Of  ambitious  magic  :  every  ocean-form 
Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness ;  storm, 
And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 
Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every  shape 
That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and 

cape. 
The  gulphing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell, 
Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 
To  its  huge  self;  and  the  minutest  fish 
Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish, 
And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 
Then  there  was  pictured  the  regality 
Of  Neptune ;  and  the  sea-nymphs  round  his  state, 
lu  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 


END  Y  MI  ON.  rt 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearl\-  wand, 

And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  stuadlastly,  that  llu;  new  denizen 

Had  time  to  keep  liim  in  amazed  ken, 

To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in  awe. 

The  old  man  raised  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger  —  seeming  not  to  see. 
His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly 
He  woke  as  from  a  tranee;  iiis  snow-white  browp 
Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  ploughs 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large, 
Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge, 
Till  round  his  wither'd  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 
Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage, 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
Eased  in  one  accent  his  o'erburden'd  soul, 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose  :  lie  grasp'd  his  stole. 
With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad, 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  awed 
Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said :  — 

"  Thou  art  the  man  !     Now  shall  I  lay  ray  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow  :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove  !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young  1 
O  shell-borne  Neptune,  I  am  pierced  and  stung 
With  new-born  life  !     What  shall  I  do  ?    Where  go, 
When  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  woe  ?  — 
I'll  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 
Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten ; 
Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I'll  be, 
That  writhes  about,  the  roots  of  Sicily : 
To  northern  seas  I'll  in  a  twinkling  sail, 
And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  whale 
To  some  black  cloud  ;  thence  down  I'll  madly  sweep 
On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep, 
7 


9><  END  YM  ION 

Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'd 

With  rapture  to  the  other  siile  of  the  world ! 

O,  1  am  lull  of  gladness!     Sisters  three, 

I  bow  full-hearted  to  your  old  decree ! 

Yes,  every  god  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign, 

For  I  no  more  shall  witlier,  droop,  and  pine. 

Thou  art  the  man  I  "     Endymion  started  back 

Disiuay'd  ;  and  like  a  wretch  from  whom  the  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 

Mutter'd:  "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  tliis  cold  region  ?     Will  he  let  nu;  freeze, 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  ?  | 

Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand,  : 

And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ?  ■ 

Or  tear  me  piecemeal  with  a  bony  saw,  j 

And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw  • 

His  inagian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

O  misery  of  hell  !  resistless,  tame,  \ 

Am  I  to  be  burn'd  up  ?  No,  I  will  shout. 

Until  the  gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out  1  — 

0  Tartai'us  I  but  some  few  days  agone 
Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 
Her  voice  1  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves  : 
Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and  —  ah,  ripe  sheaves 
Of  happiness  !  ye  on  the  stubble  droop, 
But  never  may  be  garner'd.     I  must  stoop 
My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.      Love !  love,  fare- 
well ! 

Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  ?     This  horrid  spell 
Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breath.  —  By  Uian's  hinJ 
Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 

1  see  thy  streaming  hair  I  and  now,  by  Pan, 
t  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man  1 " 

Hb  spcvke,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo !  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  gray-haired  creature  wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  hear*  where  sorrow  kept  ? 


ENDY.\nON.  9t 

Had  he,  tliough  blindly  contumelious,  biouf;ht 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  ;i  sting  to  luiinan  thought, 
Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years? 
He  had  in  truth ;  and  he  was  ripe-  tor  tears. 
The  jjenitent  shower  I'ell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt 
About  his  large  dark  loeks,  and  faltering  spake; 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Plxjcbus'  sake  I 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own  :  lor  why  ?  thou  oponcst 
The  prison-gates  that  have  so  long  oj)press'd 
My  weary  watching.     Though  thou  know'st  it  not 
Thou  art  cominission'd  to  this  fated  spot 
For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more  ! 
I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore : 
Ay,  hadst  thou  never  loved  an  unknown  power, 
I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 
But  even  now,  most  miserable  old, 
I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 
Gave  migbtv  pulses :  in  this  totterin":  case 
(Jrew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 
As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid. 
For  thou  slialt  hear  this  secret  all  display'd, 
Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task." 

So  saying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask 
Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side  : 
Resuming  quickly  thus;  while  ocean's  tide 
Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewell'd  sanda 
Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

"  JMy  soul  stands 
Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality. 
And  so  I. can  j)iopare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main, 


1 00  END  TMION. 

And  my  boat  danced  in  every  creek  and  bay; 

Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day,— 

The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant ;  for  I  had 

No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad, 

But  hollow  rocks,  —  and  they  were  palaces 

Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease  : 

Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 

Ay,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 

One  thousand  years  !  —  Is  it  then  possible 

To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 

A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime? 

To  breathe  away  as  'twere  all  scummy  slime 

From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep, 

And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep  ? 

Yes :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall. 

My  long  captivity  and  moanings  all 

Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum, 

The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 

Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures. 

"  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures 
I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
My  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars. 
And  craggy  isles,  and  seamews'  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 
Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates ;  shapes  unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green, 
Nor  be  my  desolation  ;  and,  full  oft, 
When  a  dread  waterspout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 
My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate, 
Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state, 
Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulf'd  it  down, 
And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude  : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude, 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice, 


END7MI0N.  101 

And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice  ! 
There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  I  would  steer 
My  skiff  alonjT  green  slielving  coasts,  to  l>ear 
The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery  steep, 
Mingled  with  ceaseless  blcatings  of  his  sheep : 
And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine. 
But  I  beheld  its  birth  upon  the  brine  : 
For  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 
Heaven's  gates,  and  iEthon  snort  his  morning  goUl 
Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams  :  and  constantly 
At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea, 
My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 
The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 
With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate  : 
They  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate 
Would  strew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"  Why  was  I  not  contented  ?      Wherefore  reacb 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian  ! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death  !     Fool !  I  began 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings  :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction  :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extremest  fit 
I  plunged  for  life  or  death.     To  interknit 
One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain  ;  so  not  enough 
('an  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt, 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self-intent ; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-fledged  bird  that  first  doth  show 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will. 
'Twas  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 


102  ENDJMION. 

No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  fori  see 

That  thou  hast  been  a  witness  —  it  must  be 

For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  feel  a  drouth, 

By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth. 

So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 

To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas  ! 

That  love  should  be  my  bane  !     Ah,  Scylla  fair  ! 

Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever  —  ever  dare 

To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?     Kind  stranger-youth  1 

I  loved  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth. 

And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing  1 

She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing, 

Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory, 

From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his  story 

Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 

The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 

Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear  : 

Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear ; 

And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 

It  flash'd,  that  Circe  mjght  find  some  relief — 

Cruel  enchantress!     So  above  the  water 

I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phcebus'  daughter, 

.iEaea's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon  :  — 

It  seem'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 

Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

"  When  I  awoke,  'twas  in  a  twilight  bower ; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees, 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees. 
How  sweet,  and  sweeter !  for  I  heard  a  lyre, 
And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased  —  I  caught  light  footsteps  ;  and  anon 
The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.     Stariy  Jove  1 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wove 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flowcr'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech  :  'Ah  I  ail  awake  ? 


ENDYMTON.  108 

0  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake  ! 

1  am  so  oppressM  witli  joy  !  Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  tl)ough  tliou  wert  cold  dead ; 
And  now  I  find  tliee  living,  I  will  pour 

From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 
Until  exhausted,  of  the  latest  drop. 
So  it  will  pleasure  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 
Here,  that  I  too  may  live  :  but  if  beyond 
Such  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art  fond 
Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme  ; 
If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love-dream  ; 
If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardour  mute, 
Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee  I '     Thus  she  link'd 
Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 

Their  music  came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul ; 
And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 
So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 
This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos !  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  may'st  plainly  see  how  far 
This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  may'st  not 
Exclaim,  How,  then,  was  Scylla  quite  forgot  ? 

"  Who  could  resist  ?     Who  in  this  universe  V 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia ;  so  immerse 
My  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time, 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd. 
The  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemm'd, 
.\.nd  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 

1  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal :  nor  would  thence 
Have   moved,   even   though   Amphion's  harp  had 

woo'd 
Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 
For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 
A  new  apparelling  for  western  skies : 


104  END  YM J  ON. 

So  every  eve,  nay,  every  spendthrift  hour 
Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 
And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous ; 
Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 
Of  squirrels,  foxes  shy,  and  antler'd  deer, 
And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear 
Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow  — 
To  me  new-born  delights  ! 

"  Now  let  me  borrow 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stern 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  burn 
These  uttering  lips,  while  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

"  One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping  :  half  awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to  slake 
My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts ; 
But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts 
Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore, 
That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 
Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom 
Damp  awe  assail'd  me,  for  there  'gan  to  boom 
A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound. 
Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 
Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and  rum- 
bled 
That  fierce  complain  to  silence  :  while  I  stumbled 
Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd. 
I  came  to  a  dark  valley.  —  Groanings  swell'd 
Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew. 
The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt  blue, 
That  glared  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 
This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 
Bewitch'd  me  towards  ;  and  I  soon  was  near 
A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear : 
In  thicket  hid  I  cursed  the  haggard  scene  — 
The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbour  queen, 


ENDYMION.  108* 

Seated  upon  an  uptorn  forest  root ; 

And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and  brute, 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelling,  serpenting, 

Showing" tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting. 

O  sueh  delbnnities  1  old  Charon's  sell', 

Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf. 

And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 

It  eould  not  be  so  fantasied.     Fierce,  wan, 

And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 

As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  sliook. 

Ofttimes  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'il  out, 

And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 

Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 

And  roar'd  for  more ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 

Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe, 

And  emptied  on't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 

Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 

She  lifted  up  the  charm  :  appealing  groans 

From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  eai 

In  vain  ;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier 

She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 

Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage. 

Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage  ; 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 

And  puff  from  tlie  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat: 

Tiien  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 

More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  aflright ; 

For  the  whole  iierd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen, 

Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 

Antagonizing  Boreas,  —  and  so  vanish'd. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  banish'd 

These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo  1  from  the  dark 

Came  waggisli  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revehy,  —  and  went 

Swit'tcr  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent.  — 


106  ,  EN DY MI  ON. 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 
Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 
In  human  accent :  '  Potent  goddess  !  chief 
Of  pains  resistless  !  make  my  being  brief, 
Or  let  me  from  tliis  heavy  prison  fly : 
Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die  ! 
I  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again  ; 
I  sue  not  for  my  phalanx  on  the  plain  ; 
I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife  : 
I  sue  not  tor  my  ruddy  drops  of  life, 
My  children  fiiir,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys  ! 
I  will  forget  them  ;  I  will  pass  these  joys  ; 
P^sk  nought  so  heavenward,  so  too  —  too  \wAx  : 
Only  I  pray,  as  fiiirest  boon,  to  die, 
Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh, 
From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh. 
And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 
Have  mercy.  Goddess  !  Circe,  feel  my  prayer  ! ' 

"  That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing  :  truth  had  come 
Naked  and  sabre-like  against  my  heart. 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 
And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright, 
Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night. 
Think,  my  dehverer,  how  desolate 
My  waking  must  have  been  !  disgust  and  hate, 
And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 
A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepared  to  flee 
Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 
I  fled  three  days  —  when  lo  !  before  me  stood 
Glaring  the  angry  witch.      0  Dis,  even  now, 
A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow, 
At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curae. 
'  Ha  I  ha  I  Sir  Dainty  1  there  must  be  a  nurse 
Made  of  rose-leaves  and  thistle-down,  express, 
To  cradle  thee,  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee  :  yes, 
I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  toudi : 


ENDYMION.  101 

My  tenderest  squeeze  is  but  a  <;iant's  clutch. 

So,  fairy-thinji;,  it  shall  have  lullabies 

Unheard  of  yet ;  and  it  shall  still  its  cries 

Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 

Oh,  no  —  it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 

More  than  one  pretty,  triflin<i  thousand  years ; 

And  then  'twere  pity,  but  fate's  gentle  shears 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt ! 

Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I'll  not  hurt 

One  hair  of  thine  :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh. 

That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 

And  must  we  part  ?     Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 

Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe, 

Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus, 

And  speak  a  blessing :  Mark  me  !  thou  hast  thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race  : 

But  surh  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 

Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast ; 

And  th(!rc,  ere  many  days  be  overpast, 

Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee  ;  and  even  then 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men ; 

But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 

Ten  hundred  years  :  which  gone,  I  then  bequeathe 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu  ! '  —  As  shot  stars  fall, 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 

And  poison'd  was  my  spirit :  despair  sung 

A  war-song  of  di^fiance  'gainst  all  hell. 

A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 

My  sullen  steps;  another  'fore  my  eyes 

Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  bv  ocean's  foam 

I  found  me  ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home, 

Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin, 

Came  salutary  as  I  v/aded  in  ; 

And.  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 


108  END  YM I  ON. 

Battle  to  the  swollen  billow-ridge,  and  drave 
Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 
Hale   strength,   nor   from    my    bones   all    marrow 
drain'd. 

"  Young  lover,  I  must  weep  —  such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?     While   thus   m)' 

might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  dismay'd, 
Upon  a  dead  thing's  fiice  my  hand  I  laid  ; 
I  look'd  —  'twas  Scylla  I     Cursed,  cursed  Circe  1 

0  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy  ! 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content, 
But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 
Because  I  loved  her  ?  —  Cold,  O  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  was 

1  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceased  to  pass 
Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfatliom'd  brine, 
Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 

Ilibb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  pearl. 

Headlong  I  darted  ;  at  one  eager  swirl 

Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold  I 

'Twas  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold  ; 

And  all  around  —  But  wherefore  this  to  thee 

Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt  see  ?  — 

I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 

I\Iy  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 

Met  palsy  half  way  :  soon  these  limbs  became 

Gaunt,  withe.r'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  laiiiA« 

"  Now  let  rae  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space. 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace 
Of  mitijiation,  or  redeeming:  bubble 
Of  colour'd  phantasy  :  for  1  fear  'twould  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason  :  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 


ENDYMION.  109 

"  Ou  a  day, 
Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  tlie  liorizon's  brink 
A  irallant  vessel :  soon  she  seeuiM  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resumed  in  spite  of  hindering  force  — 
So  vanish'd :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
D.irk  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose, 
Old  iEolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen, 
But  could  not;  therefore,  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  U[)  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came  :  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouils 
In  perilous  bustle  ;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the  wreck  ; 
The  final  gulfing  ;  the  poor  struggling  souls  ; 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls. 

0  they  had  all  been  saved  but  crazed  eld 
Annuil'd  my  vigorous  cravings ;  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on't,  O  Latmian  !  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 

Against  that  hell-born  Circe.     The  crew  had  gODO, 

By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion  ; 

And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone, 

With  many  a  scalding  tear,  and  many  a  groan, 

When  at  my  feet  emerged  an  old  man's  hand, 

Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand. 

1  knelt  with   pain  —  reach'd   out  my  hand  —  had 

grasp'd 
These  treasures  —  touch'd  the  knuckles  —  they  ua 

clasp'd  — 
I  caught  a  finger :  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpower'd  me  —  it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 
The  storm,  and  throuirh  chill  airuish  gloom  outbursf 
The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  atliirst 
'l"o  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming  air 
Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 
My  soul  page  after  page,  till  well  nigh  won 


no  ENDYMIOJS. 

Into  forgetfulness ;  when,  stupefied, 

I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 

My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again. 

O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 

Each  Atlas-line  bore  off!  —  a  shine  of  hope 

Came  gold  around  nie,  cheering  me  to  cope 

Strenuous  with  iiellish  tyranny.     Attend  ! 

For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end. 

"  'In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doom'd  with  enfeebled  carcase  to  outstretch 
His  loathed  existence  through  ten  centuries. 
And  then  to  die  alone.     Who  can  devise, 
A  total  opposition  ?     No  one.     So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow, 
And  he  oppressed.     Yet  he  shall  not  die. 
These  things  accomplish'd  :  —  l^  he  utterly 
Scans  a]l  the  deptlLs^of  -magic,  _aunjejq)amids 
TFe  meanTngs  of  aU  motions,  shapes,  aiuLiOunds  : 
If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 
Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences; 
He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chiefi- 
He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief 
Most  piously  ;  —  all  lovers  tempest-tost, 
And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost. 
He  shall  dejjosit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil. 
Which  done,  and  all  these  labours  ripened, 
A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  loved  and  led. 
Shall  stand  before  him ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
How  to  consuunnate  all.    JDhe  youth  elect 
Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destroy'd.'" 

"  Then,"  cried  the  young  Endymion,  overjoyM, 
"  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny ! 
Say,  I  entreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is,  in  this  restless  world,  for  ine  reserved. 
What !    if    from    thee    my    wandering    feet    had 
swerved, 


ENDYMlOy.  Ill 

Hail  we  both  peiish'd  ?"  — "  Look  !  "  the  sa^e  re- 
plied, 
'•  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  slearaiii'i  throu";h  the  tide, 
Of  (livers  brilliances  '?  'lis  the  edilice 
I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies ; 
And  where  I  have  ensiirined  piously 
All  lovers,  wliom  fell  storms  have  dooin'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."     Thus  discoursing,  on 
Tliey  went  till  unobscured  the  [)orches  shone; 
Which  hurr\ingly  they  gainM,  and  enter'd  straight. 
Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his  state 
Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 
Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 
Hiis  legion'd  all  his  battle  ;  and  behold 
How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold 
His  even  breast;  see,  many  steeled  squares, 
And  rigid  ranks  of  iron  —  whence  who  dares 
One  step?   Imagine  further,  line  by  line. 
These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine  :  — 
So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows, 
Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes. 
The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breathless,  traced 
Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  placed  ; 
Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 
All  ruddy,  —  for  here  death  no  blossom  nips. 
He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads;   saw  theii 

hair 
I'ut  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care  ; 
And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence, 
Put  cross-wise  to  its  heart. 

"  Let  U3  commence 
^Vhisper'd    the   guide,  stuttering  with  joy)  eves 

now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-bough, 
Began  to  tear  his  scroll  in  pieces  small. 
Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeraL 
He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 


112  END7MI0N. 

That    drifts    unfeather'd    when    bleak    northern! 

blow ; 
And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark  blue  cloak 
And  bound  it  round  Endymion  :  then  struck 
His  wand  against  the  empty  air  times  nine. 
"  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine : 
But  first  a  little  patience  ;  first  undo 
This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 
dh,  gentle  !  'tis  as  weak  as  spider's  skein  ; 
And  shculdst  thou  break  it  —  What,  is  it  done  so 

clean  ? 
A  power  overshadows  thee  !     Oh,  brave ! 
The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 
Here  is  a  shell ;  'tis  pearly  blank  to  me, 
Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charactery  — 
Canst  thou  read  aught  ?     O  read  for  pity's  sake ! 
Olympus  !  we  are  safe  !     Now,  Carian,  break 
This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'Twas  done :  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and 

fall 
Sweet  music  breathed  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence.  —  "  Youth!  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around, 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue."  —  'Mid  the  sound 
Of  fiutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart, 
And  scatter'd  in  his  face  some  fragments  light. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change  !  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem, 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Apj)ear'd,  and,  stepi)ing  to  a  beauteous  corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 
Press'd    its    cold    hand,   and    wept  —  and    Scylla 

sigh'd  I 
F'>ndymIon,  with  (piick  hand,  the  charm  applied  — 
The  nymph  arooe     he  left  them  to  their  joy, 


ENDYMION.  118 

And  on  ward  went  upon  liis  high  employ. 

Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead, 

Aud,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  its  head, 

As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 

Death  felt  it  to  his  Inwards;  'twas  too  much: 

Death  fell  a-weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 

The  Latniian  persevered  along,  and  thus 

All  were  reanimated.     There  arose 

A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 

Of  gladness  in  the  air  —  while  many,  who 

Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true, 

Sprang  to  each  other  madly  ;  and  the  rest 

Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 

They  gazed  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 

Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  bent. 

Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers, 

Budded,    and    swell'd,    and,  full-blown,   shed    fiill 

showers 
Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine. 
The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 
Of  happiness,  from  fairy  press  oozed  out. 
Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 
The  fair  assembly  wander'd  to  and  fro, 
Distracted  with  the  richest  overflow 
Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaven. 

"  Awav  I  " 


Shouted  the  new-born  god ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 
Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme  !  "  — 
Then  Scylla,  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 
They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise, 
Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size 
Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 
Joyous  all  foUow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 
Down  marble  steps  ;  pouring  as  easily 
As  hour-glass  sand  —  and  fast,  as  you  might  see 
Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call, 
Oi  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 
R 


114 


END  YM I  ON. 


Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  nor  far, 
Ere  from  auiong  some  rocks  of  glitteriug  spar, 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.     Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met, 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.     A  nmrmuring  roM 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters  :  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell ;  'tis  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Moved  on  for  many  a  league  ;  and  gain'd  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks ;  vanward  swelling  in  array, 
And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away, 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.     Glaucus  cried, 
"  Behold  !  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride  ! 
(Jod  Neptune's  palaces."     With  noise  increased, 
They  shoulder'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect,  diamond  gleams  and  golden  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring. 
Still  onward  ;  still  the  splendour  gradual  swell'd. 
Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank ;  and  deeper  drank  more  neai 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 
As  marble  was  their  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fciir  palace,  that  far,  far  surpass'd. 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  Nineveh. 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  colour'd  as  the  bow 
Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  show 
Beyond  a  silvery  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  this  Paphian  army  took  its  march 


ENDY.yiON.  IIJ 

Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  statt 

Whence  could  be  seen,  direct,  a  jjolden  ;;ate, 

To  which  the  leaders  sped  ;  but  not  halfraught 

Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  fairy  thou<.>:ht. 

And  made  those  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 

Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 

Soon  with  an  eaijle  nativeiiess  their  "-aze 

Ivipe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the  blazu. 

And  then,  behold  1  large  Neptune  on  his  throne 

Of  emerald  deep:  yet  not  exalt  alone; 

At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 

His  left  sat  smiling  Beauty's  paragon. 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast. 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall :  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
rhi'ir  doming  curtains,  higli,  magnificent, 
Awed  from  the  throne  aloof; —  and  when  storm-rent 
Disclosed  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air; 
But  soothed  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere, 
Noiseless,  sub-marine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye:  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north, 
A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forth 
A  gold-green  zenith  'bove  the  Sea-God's  head. 
Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe 
Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  (lelicatest  air  :  air  verily, 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air,  —  but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless,  —  and  blaze 
Of  the  dom;  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes, 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 

They  stood  in  dreams 
Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  rang  ; 


116  ENDrMIOA. 

The  Nereids  danced;  the  Syrens  faintly  sang; 
And  the  great  Sea- King  bovv'd  his  dripping  head. 
Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 
On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 
The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 
Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference; 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  throned  eminence 
She  kiss'd  the  sea-nymph's  clieek,  who  sat  her  down 
A  toying  with  the  doves.     Then,  "  Mighty  crown 
And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom!"  Venus_saiili_ 
"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid : 
Behold  ! "  —  Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell 
From  the  God's  large  eyes ;  he  smiled  delectable, 
And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands.  — 
"  Endymion  !     Ah  !  still  wandering  in  the  bands 
Of  love  ?     Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 
I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  forth  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet_ 
Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net5. 
A  little  patience,  youth  1  'jwill  not  be  long, 
Or  I  am  skilless  quite  :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious. 
Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 
Ay,  I  have  seen  these  signs  in  one  of  heaven, 
When  others  were  all  blind ;  and  were  I  given 
To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 
Some  pleasant  words :  but  Love  will  have  his  day 
So  wait  awhile  expectant.     Pr'ythee  soon, 
Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon. 
Visit  my  Cytherea :  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind; 
And  pray  persuade  with  thee —  Ah,  I  have  done, 
All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son  ! "  — 
Thus  the  fair  Goddess :  while  Endymion 
Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 


KffnYMlON.  117 

In  courteous  fountains  to  all  cups  outreach'd  ; 

And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustless,  pleach'd 

New  prowth  about  each  sliell  and  pendent  lyre ; 

The  which,  in  entangling  for  their  fire, 

Pull'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture 

For  dainty  toy.     Cupid,  empire-sure, 

Flutter'd  and  laugh'd,  and   oft-times  through    the 

throng 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  ami  song, 
And  garlanding,  grew  wild;  and  j)leasure  reign'd. 
In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd. 
And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  'tis  a  very  sin 
For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verse        ~~^ 
In  such  a  place  as  this.     O  do  not  curse, 
High  Muses  !  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending. 

All  suddenly  were  silent.     A  soft  blending 
Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"King  of  the  stormy  seal 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements!     Paternally  before 
Thee  the  waves  awful  bow.     Fast,  stubborn  rock, 
At  thy  fear'd  trident  shrinking,  doth  uidock 
Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers  lost,  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom  ever  flow. 
Thou  Irownest,  and  old  ^olus  thy  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  gruflf  complaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.     Dark  clouds  faint 
When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants  over  blue  dominion.     Thy  bright  team 
Gulfs  in  the  morning  liglit,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 


118  ENDYMIOy. 

Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 

Waits  at  the  doors  of  heaven.     Thou  art  not 

For  scenes  like  this :  an  empire  stern  hast  thou, 

And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now, 

As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 

To  blend  and  interknit 

Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 

O  shell-born  King  sublime  ! 

We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore  — 

We  sing,  and  we  adore  ! 

"  Breathe  softly,  flutes 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes; 
Nor  be  the  trumpet  heard  1  O  vain,  O  vain 
Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain, 
Nor  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  nor  river's  flow  — 
No,  nor  the  ^olian  twang  of  Love's  own  bow. 
Can  mingle  music  fit  tor  the  soft  ear 
Of  goddess  Cythcrea! 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 
On  our  soul's  sacrifice. 

"  Brisht-winged  Child  1 
Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast  smiled  ? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last 
All  death-shadows,  and  glooms  tiiat  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 
O  sweetest  essence  1  sweetest  of  all  minions  1 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair. 
And  panting  bosoms  bare! 
Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness!  echpscr 
Of  light  in  light!  delicious  poisoner  ! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  we  qualf  until 
We  fill— we  fill! 
And  by  thy  Mother's  lips " 

Was  lieard  no  more 
For  clamour,  when  the  golden  palace-door 


ENDYMION.  119 

Open'd  ajrain,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.     On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old, 
To  talce  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheepfold, 
Belbrc  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  ibr  ever  —  Then,  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea, 
Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  /Egean  seer,  her  spouse  — 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute  : 
His  fingers  wont  across  it —  All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphitrlte,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too.  — 

The  palace  whirls 
Around^iddjl-EJidymiaa.;  seeing  he 
W^Hiere  far  strayed  froifljiiflrtalily; 
He  conhl  »nf  beai'  it. —  gjuit  his  eyes  in  vain  ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
"01  shall  die  !  swi ci  Venus,  be  my  stay  I 
Where  is  my  lovely  miiUess  ?     Well-away  ! 
1  die  —  I  hear  her  voice  —  I  feel  my  wing  —  " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.     A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life  : 
But  still  he  slept.     At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purposed  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  far  away. 

Lo  I    -while    slow    carried    through   the   pitying 
crowd. 
To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake  aloud; 
Written  in  star-light  on  the  dark  above : 
"  Dearest  Endymion  !  my  entire  love  ! 
How  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate  ;  'tis  done  — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then  !  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 


J- 


120  EN DY Ml  ON. 


t 


Her  ready  egjis,  before  I'll  kissing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.     Awake !  awake  I " 


The  youth  at  once  arose  :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes ;  and  forest  green, 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonder  he  had  seen, 
LuU'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest  1 


% 


BOOK  IV. 


Muse  of  my  native  land !  loftiest  Muse  I 
O  first-born  on  the  mountains  1     By  the  hues 
Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot: 
Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot. 
While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den ; 
Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men  ; 
Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child  ;  — 
Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild. 
Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 
There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood : — 
Yet  wast  thou  patient.     Then  sang  forth  the  Nine, 
Apollo's  garland  :  —  yet  didst  thou  divine 
Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cried  in  vain, 
"  Come  hither.  Sister  of  the  Island  !  "     Plain 
Spake  fair  Ausonia ;  and  once  more  she  spake 
A  higher  summons  :  —  still  didst  thou  betake 
Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.     0  thou  hast  won 
A  full  accomplishment !     The  thing  is  done. 
Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 
On  barren  souls.    (Great  Muse,  thou  know'st  what 

prison 
Of  flesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and  freta 
Our  spirits'  wings  :  despondency  besets 
Our  pillows;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 
Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 


ENDT^fJON.  IJl 

Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 
Lonjj  have  I  said,  how  liappy  he  who  shrives 
To  thee !     I5ut  then  I  thought  on  poets  gone, 
And  could  not  pray  :  —  nor  can  I  now  —  so  on 
I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart.  — 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  that  I  should  Coiully  part 
From  my  dear  native  land  !     Ah,  foolisii  maid  ! 
Glad  was  the   hour,  when,  with  tliei:,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields' 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  ireshet  yields 
A  bitter  coolness  ;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour: 
Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods  !  but  one  short  hour 
Of  native  air  —  let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  olfering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows, 
When  these  words  rcach'd  him.  Whereupon  he  bowa 
His  head  thi'ough  thorny-green  entanglement 
Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent. 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  ?     No  fair  dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice  ?     No  sweet  saying 
To  set  my  dull  and  sadden'd  spirit  playing  ? 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?     No  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them?     No  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  ?     No  one  dies 
Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles  !  —  I  am  sad  and  lost." 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  better  have  been  toet 
Info  a  whirlpool.     Vanish  into  air, 
Warm  mountaineer  !  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigii  alone  and  in  distress  ? 
See  not  her  charms  I     Is  Phoebe  passionless? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far —  O  gaze  no  more  :  — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store, 


122  ENDYMION. 

Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass  ! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass 
For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them  ?     Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain, 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimmnig  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dovelike  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids  ?  —  Hist ! 

"  O  for  Hermes'  wand 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape  I 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling  down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown  ! 
Ah  me,  how  I  could  love  !  —  My  soul  doth  melt 
For  the  uidiappy  youth  —  Love  !     I  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  sucli  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender 
That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away  ! 
Ye  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 
And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true, 
There  is  no  li^htnin'T,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love  :  there's  not  a  sound, 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound 
The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love  :  there's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air, 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart  1 "  — 

Upon  a  bough 
He  leant,  wretched.     He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love  :  O  impious, 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus ! 
Thought  he,  "  Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead. 
Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led 
Through  the  d;irk  earth,  and  through  the  wondrom 
sea  'i 


ENDYAfJON.  123 

Godfless  !  I  love  thco  not  tho  less :  from  thee 
IJy  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not  —  no,  no,  no  — 
While  the  <rreat  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow,  — 
I  have  a  triple  soul !     O  fond  pretence  — 
For  both,  ior  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  in  twain  for  them." 

And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
Tlie  lady's  heart  beat  (piick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  (rentle  l)Osom  heave  tumiiltuously. 
He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay, 
Sweet  as  a  musk-rose  upon  new-made  hay  ; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyea 
Shut  soitly  up  alive.     To  speak  he  tries: 
"  Fair  damsel,  pity  me  1  forgive  (hat  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity  ! 
()  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief — 
Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel  !  fairest  thief ! 
Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewith 

was  to  top  the  heavens.     Dear  mai'^,  fith 
Tlioujirt  mv  cxecutionej,  and  I  feel 
lyoving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 
Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 
And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me  ; 
Do  smile  u])on  the  evening  of  my  days  ; 
And,  for  my  tortuied  brain  begins  to  craze, 
Be  thou  my  nurse;  and  let  me  understand 
How  dying  I  shall  kiss  that  lily  hand.  — 
Dost  weep  for  me  !     Then  should  I  be  content. 
Scowl  on,  ye  fates!  until  the  firmament 
Outblackens  Erebus,  and  the  full-cavern'd  earth 
Crumbles  into  itself     By  the  cloud-girth 
Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  giv(>n  me  a  thirst 
To  meet  oblivion." —  As  her  heart  would  burst 
The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  and  then  replied  : 
"  Whv  must  such  desolation  betide 
As  tliat  thou  speakest  of?     Are  not  thes?  gre«« 
nooks 


124  END  YM I  ON. 

Empty  of  all  misfortune  ?     Do  the  brooks 
Utter  a  gorgon  voice  ?     Does  yonder  thrush, 
Schooling  its  half-fledged  little  ones  to  brush 
About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ?  — 
Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snails 
Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.     Though  if  thou  wilt, 
Methinks  'twould  be  a  guilt  —  a  very  guilt  — 
Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 
The  light  —  the  dusk  —  the  dark  —  till  break  ot 

day  ! " 
"  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  'tis  past  : 
I  love  thee  !  and  my  days  can  never  last. 
That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak : 
Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek 
No  more  delight  —  I  bid  adieu  to  all. 
Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call, 
And  murmur  about  Indian  streams  ?  "  —  Then  she, 
Sitting  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree, 
For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 

"  O  Sorrow  I 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil  lips  ?  — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow  I 

AVh)'  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from'a  falcon-eye  ?  — 

To  give  the  glowworm  light  V 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
lo  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"  O  Sorrow  ! 
Why  (lost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ?  — 
To  give  at  evening  pale 


ENDYMI02i.  128 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  ma} 'it  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

"  O  Sorrow  ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though   he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of 
day  — ■ 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"  To  Sorrow, 

I  bade  good  morrow, 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her, 

And  so  leave  her. 
But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
Isat  a  weeping:  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept  — 

And  so  I  kept 
lirimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 
Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a  weeping:  what  enamour'd  bride, 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river  side? 

'  And  as  1  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers  :  the  rilli 


126  ENDTMION. 

Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue  — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew  I 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  C3mbals  made  a  merry  din  — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  to  a  niovino;  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd    with    green    leaves,    and    faces    all    oa 

flame; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee,  Melancholy  ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name  I 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when  in  June, 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  •  — 

I  rush'd  into  the  iblly  1 

"  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood. 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood. 

With  sidelong  laughing; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  (juaffing. 

"  Whence    came    ye,    merry    Damsels  !    whence 

came  ye. 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate. 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ? 
'  We  follow  Bacchus!  Bacchus  on  the  winrr, 

A  conquering  ! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacchus  1  good  or  ill  betide. 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide :  — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  01  r  wild  minstrelsy  I ' 


ENDYMION.  181 

"  Whence  came  yc,  jolly  Sahrs !  whence  came  ye, 
So  many',  and  so  many,  and  such  glee? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ?  — 
'  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms. 

And  cold  mushrooms  ; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth  ; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth  I 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy  I ' 

"  Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent. 
Onward  the  tiger  and  tlie  leopard  pants. 

With  Asian  elephants : 
Onward  these  myriads  —  with  song  and  dance, 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-iowers'  toil  : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide. 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 
^lounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains ; 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 

On  spleenful  unicorn. 

**  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown  1 

J  saw  parch'd  Abyssfciia  rouse  and  sing 
To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring  ! 

I  saw  the  wlielniing  vintage  hotly  pierce 
Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 

The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vaiL 


128  END  YM I  ON. 

And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans, 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-winlc  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  I,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary  —  so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear, 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"  Young  Stranger  I 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  climo^ 

Alas  !  'tis  not  for  me  : 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then.  Sorrow, 

Svveetest  Sorrow ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast 

I  thought  to  leave  thee. 

And  deceive  thee. 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  bert. 

"  There  is  not  one. 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother. 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade." 

O  what  a  sigh  she  gave  in  finishing, 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  worldly  thing 
Endyniiou  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her: 
And  listen'd  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearily. 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Reciember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 


» 


EADY-VlOf.  128 

A  t  laft  he  saic  :  "  Poor  lady  I    hov^  thus  lo  ig 
I  lave  I  been  jble  to  eiiduro  that  voice  ? 
Fair  Melody  1  kina  Syren  I  I've  nci  choice ; 
I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore  : 
I  cannot  t-hoose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think  —  by  Plicebe,  no ! 
Let  me  not  think,  soft  Anjrol  !  shall  it  be  so  ? 
Sar,  beautifulk'st,  shall  1  never  think  ?_ 
O  thou  couldst  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recolli'ctioM  !  make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair  1 
Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 
Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly  !  — 
I'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smootb ; 
O  let  it  blush  so  ever  :  let  it  soothe 
My  madness  !  let  it  mantle  rosy- warm 
With  the  tmge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm. 
This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is ; 
And  this  is  sure  thine  other  softling — this 
Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near ! 
Wilt  fall  asleep  ?    D.leljiiu-sipJiiaLliiarJ 
And  whisper  one  Hweet  v.nrd  th.lt  I    may  knosL 

Tliis  is  ilii:i  w^i^h]  — £wee t  dewy  blossom  ! "  —  Wo e 
Woe  I  WOE  TO  THAT  Endymion  !    Where  it 

HE?  — 

Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 
Through  tiie  wide  forest —  a  most  fearful  tone, 
Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan  ; 
And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by, 
As  of  a  thunder-cloud.     AVhen  arrows  fly 
Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring-doves  sleek 

forth 
Their  timid  necks  and  tremble ;  so  these  both 
Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 
Waiting  for  some  destruction  —  when  lo! 
Foot-feat hcr'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 
Beyo'^d  the  tall  tree  tops ;  and  in  less  time 
Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-stcrm,  down  he  dropp^ 
9 


j30  END  YM I  ON. 

Towards  the  frround;  but  rested  not,  nor  stoppd 
One  moment  from  his  home  :  only  the  sward 
He  with  his  wand  hght  touch'd,  and  lieavenward 
Swifter  than  sight  was  gone  —  even  before 
The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 
Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
Above  the  crystal  circlings  whil;e  and  clear  ; 
And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise, 
How  thev  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise  — 
80  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black, 
Each  with  large  dark  blue  wings  upon  iiis  back 
The  youth  of  Caria  placed  the  lovely  dame 
On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 
The  other's  fierceness.     Through  the  air  they  flew 
High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 
Exhaled  to   lihoebus'  lips,  awav  they  arf;  gone, 
Far  from  the  earth  away  —  unseen,  alone, 
Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  free 
The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 
Above  their  heads,  and  ibllow  them  untired. 
Muse  of  my  native  land  1  am  I  inspired  ? 
This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 
Wide  pinions  to  keep  here  ;  nor  do  I  dread 
Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 
Precipitous:  I  have  beneath  my  gkmce 
Those  towtuing  horses  and  their  mournful  freight 
Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await 
Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid  ? 
There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 
From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 
'J'hose  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 
Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire, 
Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire  1 

Tlisrc  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them  ;  soon, 
It  seein'd  as  when  around  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  Zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow 
'Twas  bleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on  pillow. 


ENDYMJON.  ISI 

For  thfi  first  time,  since  he  came  ni;j;h  dead-born 

From  tlie  old  womb  of  night,  Iiis  cave  forlorn 

Had  he  left  more  forlorn  ;  for  tliL-  fir>t  time. 

He  felt  aloof  the  day  ami  morning's  prime  — 

Because  into  his  depth  Cinnnerian 

There  cam^  a  dream,  showing  how  a  yoimg  man, 

Ere  a  lean  bat  could  jilinnp  its  wintry  skin, 

Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  Ibotstool  win 

An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 

Jove's  dau'jhtcr,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house. 

Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate, 

That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait 

To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 

Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again : 

His  litter  of  smooth  semilucent  mist, 

Diversely  tinged  with  rose  and  amethyst, 

Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre  sought; 

And  scarcely  foi-  one  moment  could  be  caught 

His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 

Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  strew 

Of  vision  search'd  for  him,  as  one  would  look 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver-throated  eels, — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale. 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale. 

Descry  a  favourite  hauilet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  (ire,  dully  drop 
Their  full-vein'd  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  step  , 
Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  dead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid-air, 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady  fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting:  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.     Behold  !  he  walltfl 


182  ENDTMION. 

On  heaven's  pavement,  brotherly  he  talks 

To  divine  powers:  from  his  hand  full  lain 

Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly  grain  t 

He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus'  golden  bow, 

And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow  : 

Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield, 

And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 

A  Jovian  thunderbolt :  arch  Hebe  brings 

A  full-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 

And  tantalizes  long  ;  at  last  he  drinks, 

And  lost  in  pleasure,  at  her  feet  he  sinks, 

Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  starlight  hand, 

He  blows  a  bugle,  —  an  ethereal  band 

Are  visible  above :  the  Seasons  four,  — 

Green-kirtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 

In  Autumn's  sickle.  Winter  frosty  hoar, 

Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours;  while  still  the  blast, 

In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 

To  sway  their  floating  morris.     "  Whose  is  this  ? 

Whose  bugle  ?  "  he  inquires :  they  smile  —  "  O  Dis ! 

Why  is  this  mortal  here  ?     Dost  thou  not  know 

Its  mistress'  lips  ?     Not  thou  ?  —  'Tis  Dian's  :  lo  ! 

Siie  rises  crescented  !"     He  looks,  'tis  she. 

His  very  goddess :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea. 

And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering ; 

Good-bye  to  all  but  love  !     Then  doth  he  spring 

Towards  her,  and  awakes  —  and,  strange,  o'erhead, 

Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred, 

Beheld  awake  his  very  dream  :  the  gods 

Stood  smiling  ;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods; 

And  Phoebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 

O  state  perplexing  !     On  the  pinion  bed, 

Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side 

Of  his  delicious  lady.     He  who  died 

For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 

Where  that  same  treacherous  wa.\  began  to  run. 

Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion. 

His  heart  leapt  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne, 


END  YM I  ON.  ISS 

To  that  fa/r-shadow'd  passion  pulsed  ita  way  — 

All,  what  perplexity  !     Ah,  well  a-(lay  ! 

So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bcd-f'ellow, 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her:  then  he  grew 

Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save 

Young  Phoebe's,  golden-hair'd  ;  and  so  'gan  crave 

Forgiveness  :  yet  he  turn'il  once  more  to  look 

At  the  sweet  sleeper,  —  all  his  soul  was  shook,  — 

She  press'd  his  hand  in  slinnber ;  so  once  more 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 

At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 

The  Latmian  started  up  :  "  Bright  goddess,  stay  ! 

Search   my  most  hidden   breast !    By  truth's  owu 

tongue, 
I  have  no  djedale  heart ;  why  is  it  wrung 
To  desperation  ?     Is  there  nought  for  me, 
Upon  the  bourne  of  bliss,  but  misery  ?" 

These  words  awoke  the  stranger  of  dark  tresses  : 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  bless(!3 
With  'haviour  soft.     Sleep  yawn'd  from  underneath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  more  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm  !  thou  contented  seeuj'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st 
What  horrors  may  discomfort  thee  and  me. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  my  heart-treachery!  — 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep  —  her  gentle  soul 
Hath  no  revenge  in  it  ;  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love  ! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above, 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence  I 
I  do,  I  do.  —  What  is  this  soul  then  ?     Whence 
Came  it  ?     It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 
Some  fearful  end  must  be  ;   where,  where  is  it  ? 
By  Nemesis  !  I  see  my  spirit  flit 
Alone  about  the  dark  —  Forgive  me,  sweet  I 
Shall   we   away  ?  "      He   roused    the  steeds ;  they 
beat 


184  ENDYMION. 

Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air, 
Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapoury  lair. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow. 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange  — 
Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange, 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof 
Tip  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof. 
So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 
'Tis  well  nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see; 
Whether   they   wept,    or   laugh'd,   or   grieved,    or 

toy'd  — 
Most  like  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow  cloy'd. 

Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon  streak, 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak. 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star, 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  sclmetar; 
Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie 
Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 
She  bow'd  into  the  licavens  her  timid  head. 
Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled, 
While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  turn'd, 
To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discern'd 
This  beauty  in  its  birth  —  Despair!  despair  ! 
He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 
In  the  cold  moonshine.   Straight  he  seized  her  wrist 
It  melted  from  his  grasp  ;  her  hand  he  kiss'd. 
And,  horror !  kiss'd  his  own  —  he  was  alone. 
Her  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 
Dropt  hawk-wise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den. 

Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace 


END  I'M  I  ON.  13i" 

Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark  regions  are  around  it,  where  the  tombs 
Of"  Limifd  (jnefs  tlie  spirit  sees,  l)iit  scarce 
One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  (or  the  pierce 
Of  new-born  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart 
At  random  flies ;  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill :  the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  hath  not  jouriiey'd  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting,  nor  pleasure  pall; 
AVoe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 
Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  painful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 
No  sound  so  loud  as  wlien  on  curtain'd  bier 
The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.     Enter  none 
\\\\o  strive  tlierefbre ;  on  the  sudden  it  is  won 
Just  when  the  suiferer  begins  to  burn. 
Then  it  is  free  to  hiin ;  and  from  an  urn, 
Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught  — 
Young  Scmele  such  richness  never  qualJ''d 
In  her  maternal  longing.     Happy  gloom  ! 
Dark  Paradise  !  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 
Of  health  l»y  due  ;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  articulate  ;  where  hopes  infest ; 
Where  those  eyes  are  the  brigiitest  far  that  keep 
Their  litis  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
O  happy  spirit-home  1     O  wondrous  soul ! 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
\n  thine  own  depth.      Hail,  gentle  Carian  1 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began, 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grievous  feud 
Hath  led  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Ay,  his  liill'd  soul  was  there,  alliiough  upborne 
With  dangerous  sjieed  :  and  so  he  did  not  moura 
Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 


186  ENBYMION. 

Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high  feast. 
They  stung  tlie  feather'd  horse  ;  with  fierce  alarm 
He  flapp'd  towards  the  sound.     Alas  !  no  charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  view'd 
A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  multitude, — 
And  silvery  was  its  passing  :  voices  sweet 
Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.     Thus  warbled  they, 
While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

"  Who,  who  from  Uian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left  ?     Who,  who  away  would  be 
"i'rom  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 
Not  Hesperus  :  lo  !  upon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily  !  — 
Ah,  Zephyrus  !  art  here,  and  Flora  too  ? 
Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew. 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  dafTodll, 
Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 

Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines, 
Savory  latter-mint,  and  columbines, 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
Allgather'd  in  the  dewv  morning:  hie 

Away  !  fly,  fly  !  — 
Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius  !  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feather'd  winga, 
Two  fanlike  fountains,  —  thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play : 
Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air; 
Let  thy  wliite  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold   through   watery   pinions;    make  mor( 

bright 


.^ 


END  y MI  ON.  181 

The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night 

Haste,  haste  away  1 
Castor  has  tamed  the  jjlaiiet  Lion,  see  ! 
And  of  ilie  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery : 
A  thir(l  is  in  the  race  !   who  is  the  thin], 
Speediii^r  away  swiCt  as  the  eagle  bird  '/ 

Tiie  ramping  Centaur  ! 
The  Lion's  mane  's  on  end  :  the  Bear  how  fierce  ! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy :  lar  forth  his  how  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He'll  be  shent, 

I'ale  unrelentor, 
When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a  playing.  — 
Andromeda  !  sweet  woman  !  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars  :  come  hither  ! 
Join  this  bright  tiirong,  and  nimbly  follow  whither 

'I'hey  all  are  going. 
Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd, 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthrall : 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. — 
By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo  1 "  — 

More 
Endymion  heard  not:  down  his  steed  him  bore. 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"  Alas!"  said  he,  "  were  I  but  always  borne 
Through  dangerous   winds,   had  but   my  footsteps 

worn 
A  path  in  hell,  for  ever  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conqiUM-ing  ;  to  him 
Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim, 
Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow :  now  I  see 
The  grass  ;  T  feel  the  solid  ground  —  Ah,  me  1 


188  END  YM I  ON. 

It  18  thy  voice  —  divinest !     Where?  —  who?  who 
Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 
Behold  upon  this  happy  eartii  we  are ; 
Let  us  aye  love  each  other ;  let  us  fare 
On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.     O  destiny  ! 
Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  woulil  fly, 
But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  to  ?     By  thee  will  I  sit 
For  ever:  let  our  fate  stop  here  —  a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  will  offer :  Pan  will  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.     I  have  clung 
To  nothing,  loved  a  nothing,  nothing  seen 
Or  felt  but  a  great  dream !     Oh,  I  have  been 
Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky. 
Against  all  elements,  against  the  tie 
Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 
Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 
Of  heroes  gone  !  Against  his  proper  glory 
Has  my  own  soul  conspired  :  so  my  story 
Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 
There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 
His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 
But  starved  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian,  here 
Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 
My  life  from  too  thin  breathing  :  gone  and  past 
Are  cloudy  phantasms.      Caverns  lone,  farewell  I 
And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 
Of  visionary  seas  !     No,  never  more 
Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 
Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 
Adieu,  my  daintiest  Uream  1  jlthough  so  vast 
"My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may  come 
When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 
On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee,  and  therefore 
Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store 


A>.-      'ION.  139 

-fhe.    evtoinfl  c\€.ar: 
All  through     >J!    ss-'t..)..!,  v.ear  :  s'>  *.hpu  wilt  sliin« 
On  me,  .iiid     ;i  :li;3  dt.i^«K-  fair  oi'  nmie, 
And  bless  ou^  rlmplo  liv^j.     My  Indian  bliss  ! 
My  river-lily  Lud  !  one  h...Tian  hiss  i 
One  sigh  of  real  brealh  — one  gentle  squeeze, 
Warni'as  a  dove's  nest  anior.g  summei  trees, 
And  warm  with  dew  at  ooze  from  living  blood  ! 
Whither  didst  melt  ?    Ah,  what  of  lh:it !  —  all  good 
We'll  talk  about  —  no  more  of  drear.img.  —  Now, 
Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  ?     Under  ihe  brow 
Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 
Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring    leaves   were 

none ; 
And  where  dark  yew-trees,  us  we  rustle  through, 
W,ll  drop  their  s(,-arlet-berry  eups  of  dew  1 
O  thou  would'st  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place! 
Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 
Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclined: 
For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find. 
And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below, 
See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go 
All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 
Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring, 
And  api)les,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee, — 
Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see. 
And  sorrel  uutorn  by  the  dew-claw'd  stag : 
Pipes  will  1  fashion  of  the  syrinx  tlag. 
That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I  roam. 
When  it  shallplcase  thee  in  our  quiet  home 
To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak; 
Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek, — 
For  yet  the  past  cloth  prison  me.     The  rill. 
Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fill 
With  fairy  fishes  iVom  the  mountain  tarn. 
And  thoii  shalt  feed  them  from  the  sciuirrel's  barn 
Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells. 
And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 
Its  sides  I'll  plan*-  with  dew-sweet  eglantine, 


140  END  YM I  ON. 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

I  will  entice  this  crystal  rill  to  trace 

Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face. 

I'll  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire ; 

And  to  god  Phcebus,  for  a  golden  lyre  ; 

To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting-spear; 

To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear, 

That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night-, 

To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 

Tame  on  thy  finger;  to  the  River-gods 

And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 

Of  gold,  and  lines  of  naiads'  long  bright  tress. 

Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveliness  ! 

Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 

'Fore  which  I'll  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee  ; 

Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall  speak 

Laws  to  my  footsteps,  colour  to  my  cheek. 

Trembling  or  steadfastness  to  this  same  voice. 

And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  tiie  choice  : 

And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things, 

Those  eyes,   those  passions,   those  supreme    pear! 

springs. 
Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 
Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seizure  ? 
Oh  that  I  could  not  doubt ! " 

The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  brier'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye. 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow 
Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  morrow 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  valleys  of  the  east : 
"  O  that  the  flutter  of  his  iieart  had  ceased. 
Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  pass'd  away  ' 
Young  feather'd  tyrant !  by  a  swift  decay 
Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth  : 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 


ENDYMION.  141 

I  lispM  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly  ; 

For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thouf;ht  of  thee, 

With  uplift  liands  I  bluss'd  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Art  thou  not  cruel  ?  ever  have  I  striven 

To  think  thee  kind,  hut  ah,  it  will  not  do  I 

When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 

Favour  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 

To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love  : 

But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  I'ar  above 

All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood, 

All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagined  good, 

Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss,  — 

Even  then  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this, 

Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers. 

And   languish'd  there  three   days.     Ye  milder 

powers. 
Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd  ?     Believe,  believe 
Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 
With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  life. 
Thou  should'st  be  one  of  all.      Ali^hint^r  strife  1 
I  mayjiof  h*^  ^''y  ^"'•"  •  ^  •'■^  ^^ihTTTwr — 
Indeed  I  am  —  thwarted,  affrighted,  chidden. 
By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 
Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  I  went :  henceforth 
Ask  me  no  more  !  I  may  not  utter  it, 
Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 
Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance  :  we  might  die  ; 
We  might  embrace  and  die  :  voluptuous  thought ! 
Enlarge  not  to  niv  huiiiier,  or  I'm  caught 
In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 
No,  no,  that  shall  not  be:  thee  will  I  bless, 
And  bid  a  long  adieu." 

The  Carian 
No  word  return'd  :  both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan, 
Into  the  valleys  green  together  went. 
Far  wanderinir,  they  were  perforce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair  lone  beechen  tree  ; 


142  END  YM I  ON. 

Nor  at  oacli  other  ^azed,  but  heavily 
Pored  on  its  hazel  cirque  of  shedded  leaves 

Endymion  !  unhappy  !  it  nigh  grieves 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Enskied  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  song. 
Thy  iute-voice'd  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long, 
And  thou  shalt  aid  —  hast  thou  not  aided  me  } 
Yes,  moonlight  Emperor !  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years ; 
Yet  often  have  1,  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
Mourn'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester;  — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir 
His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  puis 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.     The  spirit  culls 
Unfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  poppy  dream; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
Acrescenthe  had  carved,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swoll'n  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery, 
But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  tliere  was  not  a  slope 
Up  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope  ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  sliade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd ; 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin, 
Fly  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been  — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery  ! 
Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  ?     He  sees  her  not. 
But  who  so  stares  on  him  ?     His  sister  sure 


END  YMION.  1 45 

Peona  of  the  woods !  —  Can  she  endure  'i  — 
Impossible  —  how  (K-arly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles;  delight  is  iu  her  faee  ; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

"  Dear  brother  mine  ! 
Endymion,  weep  not  so!      Wliy  sliould'st  thou  pint 
AVheii  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  will  be  ? 
Tliank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly; 
And  speak  not  one  [)ale  word,  and  sigh  no  more. 
Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again. 
Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain, 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful. 
Be  happy  both  of  you  I  for  I  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls ; 
And  when  he  is  restored,  tliou,  fairest  dame, 
Slialt  be  our  (jueen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus,  —  not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad : 
O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day ; 
Free-voiced  as  one  who  never  was  away. 
No   tongue  shall   ask,   whence  come  ve  ?    but  ye 

shall 
Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 
Since  in  my  arbour  I  did  sing  to  thee 
£X  Ilyrmes  !-  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  liymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queerioflight; 
"For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight  / 

Good  visions  in  the  air. —  whence  will  befall. 
As  say'  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  and  their  flocks  ;  and  furthermore, 
In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore . 
Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 
Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far 


144  EN DY MI  ON. 

Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made ; 
And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shad«5 
With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 
New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise, 
And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  Iiuntsmen's  brow», 
Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 
This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys  ! 
His  eyes  are  on  tliee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 
His  fate  most  godiless-like.     Help  me,  I  pray, 
To  lure  —  Endymion,  dear  brother,  say 
What  ails  thee  V  "     He  could  bear  no  more,  and  M 
Bent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow. 
And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said  : 
"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid ! 
My  only  visitor  !  not  ignorant  though, 
Tiiat  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure  go, 
'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be: 
-But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see, 
.If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 
Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 
Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 
Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 
Let  it  content  thee,  Sister,  seeing  me 
More  happy  than  betides  moi'tality. 
A  hermit  young,  I'll  live  in  mossy  cave. 
Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and  lave 
Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 
Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well 
For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 
And  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 
With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 
Peona,  niayst  return  to  me.     I  own 
This  may  sound  strangely:  but  when,  dearest  girl, 
Thou  seest  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 
Will  trespass  down  "those  cheeks.     Companion  fair 
Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 
This  sister's  love  with  me  ?  "     Like  one  resign'd 
And  bent  by  circumstances,  and  thereby  blind 


ENDYMION.  146 

In  self-cominltmeiit,  thus,  that  meek  unknown : 

•'  Ay,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown, 

Of  jubilee  to  Dian  :  —  truth  I  heard  ! 

Well  then,  I  ^ea  there  is  no  little  bird. 

Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 

■Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and  unaware, 

Beholc]  I  find  it !  so  exalted  too! 

So  after  my  own  heart !  I  knew,  I  knew 

There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it ; 

In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit, 

And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 

With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 

Of  Dian's  sisterhood  ;  and  kind  lady. 

With  tliy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 

My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  create 
His  own  particular  jQiKht,  so  these  three  felt : 
Or  like  one  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  IJa^l,  when  he'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep:  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Towards  couunon   thoughts   and   things  for  very 

fear  ; 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer, 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no, 
That  liousewives  talk  of.     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At  the  last 
Endymion  said:  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast? 
Why  stand  we  here  V     Adieu,  ye  tender  pair! 
Adieu  !  "     Wlu-rciat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare 
Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 
His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 
Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maw, 
In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 
Engulf  for  ever.     "  Stay,"  he  cried,  "  ah,  stay  f 
Turn  damsels  !  hist !  one  word  I  have  to  say  : 
10 


46  ENDTMION. 

Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again. 
It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on  :  so  I'd  fain, 
Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair, 
Into  those  holy  groves  that  silent  are 
Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I'll  be  yon. 
At  Vesper's  earliest  twinkle  —  they  are  gone  — 
But  once,  once,  once  again  — "     At  this  he  presl 
His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 
His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green 
And  so  remain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 
All  the  long  day ;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted 
His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 
With  the  slow  move  of  time,  —  sluggish  and  wean 
Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary. 
Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 
And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 
Walk'd  towards  the  temple-grove  with  this  lament 
"  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?     The  breeze  is  sent 
Careful  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 
Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 
Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west. 
Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest, 
But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 
To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  will  strew 
On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering  leaves, 
And  with  them  shall  I  die ;  nor  much  it  grieves 
To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 
^^Qly,J  have  been-  a  featte^flyy  a-lowJ- 
X)f  flowersr  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  posies, 
(iroves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbour-roses; 
My  kingdom's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 
That  I  should  die  with  it :  so  in  all  this 
We  miscall  grief,  bale,  sorrow,  heart-break,  woe, 
What  is  there  to  plain  of?     By  Titan's  foe 
I  am  but  rightly  served."     So~saying,  he 
"Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathful  glee ; 
Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun, 
As  though  they  jests  had  been  :  nor  had  he  done 


END  YM  ION.  147 

His  laugh  at  nature's  holy  countenance, 

Until  that  {jrove  apiieaiAl,  as  if  perchani'e, 

And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seomlilied 

Gave  uttorance  as  he  enterVl :  "  Ila  !  "  he  said, 

'•  King  of  the  butterflies  ;  but  by  this  gloom, 

And  by  old  Khadaniaulhus'  tongue  of  doom, 

Tliis  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude, 

And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 

IJy  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 

Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  1  did  wed 

Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy  ; 

And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 

Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man 

Gmw  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 

On  tilings  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found; 

Dee[)er  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 

Beyond  the  reach  of  music  :  for  the  choir 

Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  brier 

Nor  mullling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 

The  Vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full, 

Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan  aisles. 

He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles, 

Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight 

By  chilly-finger'd  spring.     Unhappy  wight ! 

"  Endymion  !"  said  Peona,  "  we  are  here  ! 

\Vhat  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on  bier?" 

Then  he  embraced  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 

Press'd,  saying :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command, 

If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate." 

At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate 

And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love, 

To  Endymion's  amaze :  "  By  Cupid's  dove, 

And  so  thou  shalt  I  and  by  the  lily  truth 

Of  my  own  breast  thou  shalt,  beloved  youth  1 " 

And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  came 

Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame  : 

Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  displaf 

Full  golden  ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 


148  ENDYMION. 

Dawn'd  blue,  and  full  of  love.     Aye,  he  beheld 
Phoebe,  Iiis  passion !  joyous  she  upheld 
Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus:  "Drear,  drear 
Has  our  delaying  been  ;  but  foolish  fear 
Withheld  me  first ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate ; 
And  then  'twas  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 
Thou    shouldst,   my   love,    by   some     unlook'd-f(M 

change 
Be  spiritualized.  >  Peona,  we  shall  range 
These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 
As  was  thy  cradle  ;  hither  shait  thou  flee 
To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 
Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  fair  good  night: 
Her  brother  kiss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 
Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 
She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold, 
Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told, 
They  vanished  far  away  !  —  Peona  went 
Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment. 


LAMIA. 


PART  I. 


UPON  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 
Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr  from  the  jjrosperoiu 

wooils, 
Before  Kinjj  Oberon's  bright  diadem, 
Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  with  dewy  fjem, 
Frij;hted  away  the  Dryads  and  tlie  Fauns 
From  rusl>es  green,  and    brakes,   and   cowslipp'd 

lawns. 
The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 
His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous  tlieft : 
From  hijxl)  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light. 
On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight 
Ot"  his  great  sunnnouer,  and  made  retreat 
Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 
For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 
A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hooi'ed  Satyrs  knelt; 
At  whose  -white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  pour'd 
Pearls,  while  on  land  they  wither'd  and  adored. 
Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was  wont, 
And   in   those  meads  where  sometimes  she  migh 

haunt. 
Were  strewn  rich  gifts,  unknown  to  any  Muse, 
Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to  choose. 
Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet  I 
So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 
Burn'd  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear, 
That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 
Blush'd  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair. 
Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders  bare 
From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood  to  wood,  he  flew, 


150  LAM/A. 

Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new, 

And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head, 

To    find   where    this   sweet   njniph   prepared    hei 

secret  bed : 
In  vain  ;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere  be  found. 
And  so  he  rested,  on  tlie  lonely  ground, 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  the  very  trees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  uiouriifid  voice. 
Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  desti'oys 
All  pain  but  pity  :  thus  the  lone  voice  spake  : 
"  When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  siiall  1  awakej 
When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life. 
And  love,  and  pleasure,  and  the  ruddy  strife 
Of  hearts  and  lips  I     Ah,  miserable  me!" 
The  God,  dove-footed,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  soft-brushing,  in  his  speed, 
The  taller  grasses  and  full-Howering  weed. 
Until  he  found  a  palpitating  snake. 
Bright,  and  cirque-couchant  in  a  dusky  brake. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 
k  jj.    Vermilion -spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue  ; 
r"^  ■"      Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard. 

Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barr'd ; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed, 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  interwreatlied 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries  — 
So  rainbow-sided,  touch'd  with  miseries. 
She  seem'd  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf, 
Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 
Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannisii  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar : 
Her  Iwad  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-sweet! 
She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its  pearls  com- 
plete : 
And  for  her  eyes  —  wliat  could  such  eyes  do  there 
But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  boin  so  fair "'' 


LAMIA.  151 

As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air. 
Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she  spake 
Came,  as  throu^'h  bubbling  honey,  lor  i^ove's  sake, 
Anil  thus;   while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay, 
Like  a  stoop'd  lalcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey: 

"  Fair  Ilermes  !  crown'd  with  feathers,  iluttering 
li-ht, 
I  tad  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night : 
1  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold, 
Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old, 
The  only  sad  one  ;  for  thou  didst  not  hear 
The  soft,  lute-finger'd  IMuses  chanting  clear, 
Nor  even  Apollo  when  he  sang  alone. 
Deaf  to  his  throbbing  throat's  long,  long  melodious 

moan. 
I  dreamt  1  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes, 
Break    amorous    through    the    clouds,    as    morning 

breaks, 
And,  swifily  as  a  bright  Phcebean  dart. 
Strike  lor  the  Cretan  isle;  and  here  thou  art  I 
Too  gentle   ilermes,  hast  thou  found  the  maid?" 
^Vhereat  the  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  elocjuence,  and  thus  incjuired  : 
"  Thou  smooih-ii[)i)'d  serpent,  surely  high-inspired  I 
Thou  beauteous  wreath,  with  melancholy  eyes, 
Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise, 
'J'cllivn;  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled, — 
Where  she   do'lh  breathe"!"    "Bright   planet,  thou 

hast  said," 
Return'd  the  snake,  "  but  seal  with  oaths,  fair  God  1 " 
"  I  swear,"  said  Hermes,  "  by  my  serpent  rod. 
And  by  tliine  eyes,  and  by  thy  starry  crown  !" 
Li'dit  Hew  Lis  earnest  words,  among   the   blossomi 

blown. 
Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine  : 
"  Too  frail  of  heart  1  tor  this  lost  nymph  of  thine. 
Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 


152  LAM  [A. 

About  these  thornless  wilds  ;  her  pleasant  days 

She  tastes  unseen  ;  unseen  her  ninable  feet 

Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet : 

From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches  green, 

She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  unseen  : 

And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd 

To  keep  it  unafFronted,  unassail'd 

By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes. 

Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear'd  Silenus'  sighs. 

Pale  grew  her  immortalit},  for  woe 

Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 

I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 

Her  hair  in  weird  syrops,  that  would  keep 

Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 

To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 

Thou  shalt  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  alone, 

If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  swearest,  grant  my  boon  1 " 

Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 

An  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it  ran 

Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  psalterian. 

Ravish'd  she  lifted  her  Circean  head, 

Blush'd  a  live  damask,  and  swift-lisping  said, 

"  I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 

A  woman's  shape,  and  charming  as  before. 

I  love  a  youth  of  Corinth  —  O  the  bliss! 

Give  me  my  woman's  form,  and  place  me  where  he  is 

Stoop,  Hermes,  let  me  breathe  upon  thy  brow, 

And  thou  shalt  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even  now." 

The  God  on  half-shut  feathers  sank  serene. 

She  breathed  upon  his  eyes,  and  swift  was  seen 

Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling  on  the 

green. 
It  was  no  dream;  or  say  a  dream  it  was. 
Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  and  smoothly  pass 
Their  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 
One  warm,  (Insli'd  moment,  hovering,  it  miglit  seem 
Dash'd  by  tlie  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he  burn'd  ; 
Then,  lighting  on  the  printless  verdure,  turn'd 


1.AMIA.  153 

To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  languid  arm, 

Di'Hcate,  put  to  proof  the  lithe  Caduican  tharm 

So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent 

Full  of  adoring  tears  and  ulandishnient, 

And  towards  Ihm-  slept  :  she,  like  a  moon  in  wane. 

Faded  before  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  restrain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self-folding  like  a  llower 

That  faints  into  itself  at  evcnins:  hour  : 

But  the  God  fostering  her  eiiillcd  liand, 

She  felt  the  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd  bland, 

And,  like  new  flowers  at  morninji  son2  oC  bei'S, 

Bioom'd,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to  the  h-es. 

Info  the  green-recessed  woods  tliey  flew  ; 

Nor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 

Left  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change  ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran. 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  therewith  besprent, 
Wither'd  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent ; 
Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguisli  drear. 
Hot,  glazed,  and  wide,  witli  lid-lashes  all  sear, 
Flash'd    phosphor   and   sharp  sparks,  without   one 

cooling  tear. 
Tlie  colours  all  inflamed  throughout  her  tiain, 
She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet  pain: 
A  deep  volcaiiian  yellow  took  the  place 
Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace  ; 
^Vnd,  as  the  la\a  ravishes  the  meatl. 
Spoilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede : 
Made  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks  and  barsi 
Eclipse  J  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  uj)  her  stars : 
So  tha",  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrest 
0(  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  ametiiyst, 
And  rubious-argent:  of  all  these  bereft. 
Nothing  but  j)ain  and  ugliness  were  left. 
Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish'd,  also  she 
Melted  and  disappeai  M  as  suddenly  ; 
And  in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft. 


154  LAMIA. 

Cried,  "  Lycins  !  gentle  Lycins  !  "  —  borne  aloft 
With  the  bright  mists  about  the  mountains  hoar 
These   words   dissolved:  Crete's   forests  heard    m 
more. 

Whither  fleil  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 
A  full-born  beauty  new  and  exquisite? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  tiiey  pass  o'er 
Who  go  to  Corinth  from  Cenchreas*  shore; 
7\.iid  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills, 
The  rugaed  founts  of  the  Peraian  rills. 
And  of  that  other  ridge  whose  barren  back 
Stretches,  with  all  its  mist  and  cloudy  rack, 
South-westward  to  Cleone.     There  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood, 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  ti-ead, 
By  a  clear  pool,  wherein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escaped  from  so  sore  ills. 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 

Ah,  happy  Lycius  !  —  for  she  was  a  maid 
Viore  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid, 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blush'd,  or  on  spring-flower'd  lea 
Spread  a  green  kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy  : 
\  virgin  purest  llpp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  love  deep  learned  to  the  red  heart's  core: 
Not  one  hour  old,  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  unperplex  bliss  from  its  neighbour  pain ; 
Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counterchange 
Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dispart 
Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art; 
-    As  thougli  in  Cupid's  college  she  had  spent 
Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unshent, 
(     y  \  And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  ianguishment. 

Why  this  fiir  creature  chose  so  fairily 
Jiy  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see  ■ 


LAMIA,  151 

But  first  'tis  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 

And  tiream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison-houso, 

Of  all  she  list,  stranjje  or  maj;nificent: 

How,  ever,  where  she  will'd,  her  spirit  went; 

Whetlier  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 

Down  throutrh  tress-lifiinir  waves  the  Nereids  fair 

Wind  into  Thetis'  bower  by  many  a  pearly  stair ; 

Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups  divine, 

Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  heneatli  a  Ldutinous  pine; 

Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 

Mnlciber's  columns  gleam  in  far  piazzian  line. 

And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 

Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend  ; 

And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming  thus, 

S!ie  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 

Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race, 

Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  face, 

And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him. 

Now  on  the  motli-time  of  that  evening  dim 

He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she  knew. 

To  Corinth  from  the  shore;  for  freshly  blew 

The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 

Grated  the  quay-stones  with  her  brazen  prow 

In  port  Cenclireas,  from  Egina  isle 

Fresh  anchor'd  ;  whither  he  had  been  awhile 

To  sacriflce  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 

Waits  with   high  marble  doors  for  blood  and  ii» 

cense  rare. 
Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  better'd  his  desire  ; 
For  bv  some  fieakful  chance  he  made  retire 
From  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to  walk. 
Perhaps  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth  talk  : 
Over  the  solitary  hills  he  fared, 
Thoughtless,  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  appear'd 
His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  reason  fades, 
In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 
Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near  — 
Close  to  her  passing,  in  indifFerence  drear. 


156 


LAMIA. 


His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green  ', 
So  neighbour'd  to  liini,  and  yet  so  unseen 
She  stood :  he  pass'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries, 
His  mind  wrapp'd  like  liis  mantle,  while  her  eyes 
Follow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal  white 
Turn'd  —  syllabling  thus,  "  Ah,  Lycius  bright  ! 
And  will  you  leave  nie  on  the  hills  alone  r 
Lycius,  look  back  !  and  be  some  pity  shown." 
He  did  ;  not  witli  cold  wonder  fearingly, 
.  \    But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice  ; 

For  so  delicious  were  the  words  she  sung, 

It  seem'd  he  had  loved  them  a  whole  sununer  long 

An'd  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up. 

Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup, 

And  still  the  cup  was  full,  —  while  he,  afraid 

Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lips  had  paid 

Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore  ; 

Her  soft   look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his  chain  sc 

sure : 
"  Leave  thee  alone  !    Look  back  I    Ah,  Goddess,  see 
Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee  ! 
For  jjity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie  — 
Even  as  thou  vanishest  so  I  shall  die. 
Stay  '  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay  ! 
To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey  : 
Stay  !  though  the  greenest  woods  be  tiiy  domain, 
Alone  they  can  diink  up  the  morning  rain  : 
Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 
Of  thine  harmonious  sisters  keep  in  tune 
Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  sliiric  '•' 
So  sweetly  to  these  lavish'd  ears  of  mine 
Came   thy  sweet   greeting,   that   if   thou    shouldsl 

fade. 
Thy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade ;  — 
For  pity  do  not  nicll  !  "—  "If  I  should  stay," 
Said  Lamia,  "  here,  upon  this  floor  of  clay. 
And  pain  my  stips  upon  these  flowers  too  rough. 
What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 


LAMIA.  157 

To  (lull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  hom(!  ? 

Tliou  canst  not,  ask  me  with  thee  here  to  roam 

Over  tliose  liills  and  vales,  where  no  joy  is, — 

Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss  ! 

Thou  art  a  scliolar,  Lycius,  and  must  know 

'J'liat  finer  s|)irits  cannot  breatl.-e  below 

Jii  human  climes,  and  live:  Alas!  poor  youth, 

What  taste  of  purer  air  hast  thou  to  soothe 

My  essence  ?     \Vhat  sercner  palaces, 

\\'liere  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please. 

And  by  mysttvrious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts  ap 

pease ; 
It  cannot  be —  Adieu  !  "     So  said,  she  rose 
Tiptoe  with  white  arms  spread.     He,  sick  to  lose 
The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 
Swoon'd  murmurinir  of  love,  and  pale  with  pain 
The  cruel  lady,  without  any  show 
Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favourite's  woe, 
But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 
With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity, 
Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 
The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh: 
And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakeninif 
Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 
Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  everytliing, 
A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres, 
While,   like  held   breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their 

panting  fires. 
And  then  she  whisper'd  in  such  trembling  tone. 
As  tl'.ose  who,  safe  together  met  alone 
Sov  the  first  tinu-  through  many  anguish'd  days, 
Use  other  speech  than  looks  ;  bidding  him  raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of  doubt, 
For  that  she  was  a  woma-n,  and  without 
Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins 
Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self-same  paini 
Inhabited  iicr  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 
And  next  she  wonder'd  how  his  eyes  could  naisa 


158  LAMIA. 

Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she  said, 
She  dwelt  but  half  retired,  and  there  had  led 
Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 
Without  the  aid  of  love ;  yet  in  content 
Till  she  saw  him,  as  once  she  pass'd  hiin  by. 
Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thoughtfully 
At  Venus'  temple  porch,  'mid  baskets  heap'd 
Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 
Late  on  that  eve,  as  'twas  the  night  before 
The  Adonian  feast ;  whereof  she  saw  no  more, 
But  wept    alone    those  days,  for    why  should  she 

adore  ? 
Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze. 
To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays; 
Then  from  amaze  into  delight  he  fell 
To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well ; 
And  every  word  she  spake  enticed  him  on 
To  unperplex'd  delight  and  j)leasure  known. 
Let  the  mad  poets  say  vvhate'er  they  please 
Of  the  sweets  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 
There  is  not  such  a  treat  auiong  them  all, 
ilaunters  of  cavern,  lake,  and  waterfall, 
As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 
From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 
Thus  gentle  Lamia  judged,  and  judged  aright. 
That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright. 
So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 
More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part, 
With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty  gave, 
That,  while  it  smote,  still  guaranteed  to  save. 
Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  ri'ply, 

Marrying  to  every  word  a  twin-born  sigh  ;  j 

And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her  sweet, 
If  'twas  too  far  that  night  for  her  soft  I'eet. 
The  way  was  short,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 
Made,  by  a  spell,  the  triple  league  decrease 
To  a  few  paces  ;  not  at  all  surmised 
Bjr  bUuded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprised 


LAMIA.  15f 

They  passM  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how, 
So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 

As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all, 
Throuo;hout  her  palaces  imperial, 
And  all  her  poi)ulous  streets  and  temples  lewd, 
Mutter'd,  like  tempest  in  the  distance  brew'd. 
To  the  wide-sprcaded  night  above  her  towers. 
Men,  women,  rich  and  ])oor,  in  the  cool  hours, 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  tlic  pavement  white, 
CompanionM  or  alone  ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealtiiy  festivals. 
And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on  the  walls, 
Or  found  them  cluster'd  in  tlie  corniced  shade 
Of  some  arch'd  temple  door,  or  dusky  colonnade. 

Muffling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in  fear, 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came  near 
With  curl'd  gray  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and   smooth 

bald  crown, 
Slow-stepp'd,  and  robed  In  philosophic  gown: 
Lycius  slirank  closer,  as  they  met  and  past, 
Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste, 
While  hurried  Lamia  trembled:  "Aii,"  said  he, 
'•Why  do  you  shudder,  love,  so  ruefully? 
Why  does  your  tender  palm  dissolve  in  dew  ?"    - 
'•  I'm  wearied,"  said  fair  Lamia:  "  tell  me  who 
Is  that  old  man  ?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
Ills  features:  —  Lycius!  wherefore  did  you  blind 
Yourself  from  his  (luick  eyes  ?  "     Lycius  replied, 
"  'Tis  ApoUonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 
And  good  instiuctor ;  but  to-nlglit  he  seems 
The  ghost  of  lolly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams." 

\Vhile  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived  before 
A  pillar'd  porch,  witli  lofty  portal  door. 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp  whose  phosphor  glow 
Reflected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 


160  LAMIA. 

Mild  as  a  star  in  water ;  for  so  new 

And  so  unsullied  wa^  the  marble  hue, 

So  througii  tlie  crystal  polish,  liejuid  fine. 

Ran  the  dark  veins,  that  none  but  feet  divine 

Could  e'er  have  touch'd  there.     Sounds  ^olian 

Breathed  from  the  hinges,  as  the  ample  span 

Of  the  wide  doors  disclosed  a  jlace  unknown 

Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone. 

And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same  year 

Were  seen  about  the  markets :  none  knew  where 

They  c^ald  inhabit;  the  most  curious 

Were  foil'd,  who  watch'd  to  trace  them   to  theii 

house : 
And  but  tlie  flitter-winged  verse  must  tell, 
For  truth's  sake  what  woe  afterwards  befell, 
'Twould  humour  many  a  heart  to  le?»ve  them  thu8, 
Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  in  'redulous. 


J^J^^W 


v:^ 


PART  n. 


Love  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust, 

Is —  Love,  forgive  us  I  —  cinders,  ashes,  dust; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 

~  "ore  grievous  torment  than  a  hermit's  fast :  — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  faery  land, 

Hard  for  tiie  non-elect  to  understand. 

Had  Lycius  lived  to  hand  his  story  down, 

He  mi<>ht  have  ffiven  the  moral  a  fresh  frown, 

Or  clench'd  it  quite  :  but  too  short  was  their  bliss 

To    breed   distrust    and    hate,  that  make  the  sort 

voice  hiss. 
Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare, 
Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 
Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  vnth  fearful  roar, 
Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber  door. 
And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon  the  floor 


LA  At  J  A.  16 1 

Foi  all  this  came  a  niiu  :  side  by  side 
They  wei-e  entliroiiud,  in  tlie  oven  tide, 
Upon  a  courh,  near  to  a  curtairiing 
Whose  airy  texture,  fi-om  a  golden  strinj;. 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  appear 
Unveil'd  the  summer  heaven,  blue  and  cleai, 
Betwixt  two  marble  shafts:  —  there  they  rejosed, 
Wiiere  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids  closed, 
Saving  a  tithe  which  love  still  open  kept. 
That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they  almost 

slept ; 
When  from  the  slope  side  of  a  suburb  hill, 
Deafening  tiie  swallow's  frwitter,  came  a  thrill 
Of  trumpets  —  Lycius  started  —  the  sounds  fled, 
But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 
For  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbour'd  in 
That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin, 
His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  golden  bourn 
Into  the  noisy  world  almost  forsworn. 
The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetrant, 
Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 
Of  sometlilng  more,  more  than  her  empery 
Of  joys  ;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 
Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 
That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing 

bell. 
"  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature  V"  whisper'd  he  , 
"  Why,  do  you  think  ?  "  return'd  she  tenderly  : 
"  You  have  deserted  me ;  where  am  I  now  V 
Not  in  your  heart  while  care  weighs  on  your  brow 
No,  no,  you  have  dismiss'd  me ;  and  I  go 
From  your  breast  houseless:  ay,  it  must  be  so." 
lie  answei-'d,  bunding  to  her  open  eyes, 
Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, — 
"  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn  1 
Wiiy  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 
While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart 
With  deejjcr  crimson,  and  a  double  smart? 
11 


[qI2  lamia. 

flow  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 
Your  soul  in  mine,  and  labj-rinth  you  there, 
Jiike  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose  ? 
Ay,  a  sweet  kiss —  you  see  your  migiity  woes. 
My  thoughts  !  shall  1  unveil  them?     Listen  then  1 
What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  other  men 
May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal, 
But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  majestical, 
And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice 
Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinth's  voice. 
Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout  afar, 
While  through  the  thronged  streets  }our  bridal  car 
Wheels  round  its   dazzling  spokes."  —  The  lady's 

cheek 
Trembled  ;  she  nothing  said,  but,  pale  and  meek, 
Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wept  a  rain 
Of  sorrows  at  his  words ;  at  last  with  ])ain 
Beseeching  him,  the  while  his  hand  she  wrung. 
To  change  his  purpose.     He  thereat  was  stung, 
Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim 
Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim  ; 
Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  self  despite, 
Against  his  better  self,  he  took  delight 
Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new. 
His  ])assion,  cruel  grown,  took  on  a  hue 
Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  'twas  possible 
In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to  swell. 
Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury,  like 
Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 
The  serpent  —  Ha!  the  serpent !  certes,  she 
Was  none.     She  burnt,  she  loved  the  tyranny, 
And,  all  subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 
When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  paramour. 
Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the  youth, 
'•  Sure  some  sweet  name  thou  hast,  though,  by  mj 

truth, 
I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 
Not  nnortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny, 


LA  AHA.  163 

As  still  I  do.     Jast  any  mortal  name, 

Fit  appellatiot  for  this  dazzlin;:  frame  ? 

Or  friends  or  .vinsfolk  on  tlie  citii-il  i-arth, 

To  share  our  marriage  feast  and  nuptial  mirth  ?' 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Lamia,  "  no,  not  one ; 

My  presence  In  wide  Corintli  hardly  known  • 

My  parents'  hones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 

Sepulchred,  where  no  kindh^d  incense  burns. 

Seeing  all  thei^'  luckless  race  are  dead,  save  mu, 

And  1  neglect  the  iioly  rit<>  for  thee. 

P2ven  as  you  list  Invite  your  many  guests; 

But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  your  vision  rests 

With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid 

Old  Apollonius  —  from  liim  keep  me  hid." 

Lycius,  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and  blank, 

Made  close  Inquiry;  fi-om  whose  touch  she  siirank 

Feigning  a  sleep  ;  and  he  to  the  dull  shade 

Of  deep  sleep  in  a  moment  was  betray'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 
The  bride  from  home  at  blusliing  shut  of  day, 
Vcil'd,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  ali;riT 
By  strewn  flowers,  torches,  and  a  marriage  song. 
With  other  pageants:  but  this  fai:-  unknown 
Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left'alo::''^, 
(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin,) 
Anil  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 
His  foolish  heart  from  Its  mad  pompousness, 
She  set  herself,  liigli-thouglited,  how  to  dress 
The  misery  In  fit  magnificence. 
She  did  so,  but  'tis  doubtful  how  and  whence 
Oame,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 
About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors, 
Tiiere  was  a  noise  of  wings,  till  in  shor;  spaic 
The  glowing  banquet-room  shone  with  wide-arciied 


grace. 


\  hatjnting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 
Supportress  of  the  faery-roof,  made  moan 


IM  LAMIA. 

Throughout,  as  fearful  the  whole  charm  might  fadft 
Fresh  carved  cedar,  mimicking  a  <flade 
Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  either  side, 
Hijiii  in  the  midst,  in  honour  of  the  bride  : 
Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on, 
From  either  side  their  stems  branch'd  one  to  one 
All  down  the  aisled  place ;  and  beneath  all 
There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on  from  wall 

to  wall. 
So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 
Teeming  with  odours.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 
Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went. 
In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 
Mission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 
The  fretted  splendour  of  each  nook  and  niche. 
Between  the  tree-stems  marbled  plain  at  first, 
Came  jasper  panels ;  then,  anon,  there  burst 
Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees. 
And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies. 
Approving  all,  she  faded  at  self-will. 
And  shut  the  chamber  up,  close,  hush'd  and  still, 
Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude. 
When  dreadful  guests  would  come  to  spoil  her  soli- 
tude. 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip  rout. 
O  senseless  Lycius  !  Madman !  wherefore  flout 
The  silent-blessing  fate,  warm  cloister'd   hours. 
And  show  to  common  eyes  these  secret  bowers  ? 
The  herd  approach'd ;  each  guest,  with  bus)-  brain, 
Arriving  at  the  portal,  gazed  amain, 
And  enter'd  marvelling :  for  they  knew  the  street. 
RiMuember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 
AVithout  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 
That  royal  porch,  that  high-built  fair  deinijsne  ; 
So  in  they  hurried  all,  mazed,  curious  and  keen  • 
Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  severe, 
And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  austere  ; 


LAlflA.  ISA 

Twas  Apollonius  :  something  loo  he  lauprird, 
As  tliou-uh  some  knotty  f)roblem,  that  had  daft 
flis  patient  fhou<:ht,  hail  now  bogiin  to  thaw, 
And  solvo  and  melt:  —  'twas  just  as  he  foresaw. 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  younu  disciple.     "  'Tis  no  common  rule, 
Lycius,"  said  he,  "  for  uninvited  {juest 
To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
With  an  tinhidden  presence  the  bri^rhi.  thronn^ 
Of  youiiL'er  friends;  yet  must  I  do  this  wronj;, 
And  you  forgive  me."     Lyeius  blush'd  and  led 
The  old  man  throujih  the  inner  doors  broad-spread 
With  reconcilinji  words  and  courteous  mien 
Turning  into  sweet  milk  the  sophist's  spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
Fill'd  with  pcrvadiiinj  brilliance  anil  perfume: 
Hetbre  each  lucid  panel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft, 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerved  upon  the  sot"t 
\Vool-woofed  carpets  :  fifty  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick'd  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables  by  silk  seats  inspherud, 
High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 
Of  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 
Thus  loaded  with  a  feast  the  tables  stood. 
Each  shrinin<r  in  the  midst  the  ima^e  of  a  God 


c> 


When  in  an  antechamber  every  gues*^ 
Had  felt  the  I'old  full  s[)Onge  to  pleasure  press'd, 
By  ministering  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and  feet, 


166  LASfFA. 

And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  liis  liair,  tliey  all  moved  to  the  feast 
[n  -white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order  placed 
Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this  mighty  cost  and  blaze  of  wealth 
could  spring. 

Soft  went  the  rausic  the  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowel'd  under-song 
Kept  up  among  the  guests,  discoursing  low 
At  first,  for  scarcely  was  the  wine  at  (low  ; 
But  when  the  hai)py  vintage  touch'd  their  brains, 
Louder  they  talk,  and  louder  come  the  strains 
Of  powerful  instruments:  —  the  gorgeous  dyes, 
The  space,  the  splendour  of  the  draperies, 
The  roof  of  awful  richness,  nectarous  cheer, 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  appear. 
Now,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy  deed, 
And  every  soul  from  human  trammels  freed, 
No  more  so  strange  ;  for  merry  wine,  sweet  wine. 
Will  make  Elysian  shades  not  too  fair,  too  divine. 
Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  heiLrht; 
Flush'd  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes  double 

bright : 
Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales  deflowcr'd,  or  forest-trees  branch-rent, 
In  baskets  of  bright  osier'd  gold  were  bi-ought 
High  as  the  handles  heap'd,  to  suit  the  thought 
Of  every  guest :  that  each,  as  he  did  please. 
Might  fancy-fit  his  brows,  silk-pillow'd  at  his  ease. 

What  wreath  for  Lamia  ?     AVhat  for  Lycius  ? 
What  for  the  sage,  old  ApoUonius  ? 
Upon  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for  him 
The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  niay  swim 
Into  forgetfulness ;  and,  for  the  sage, 


LAMIA.  isi 

Let  spear-grass  and  the  spiteful  thistle  wage 
War  on  his  temples.     Do  not  all  cliarms  fly 
At  the  mere  tourh  of  cold  |)IiiIosophy  ? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven: 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture;  she  is  jriven 
In  the  dull  catalo;iue  ot  couunon  tliiu'^s. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Anjiel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnouied  mine  — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tcnder-persou'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 

By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place. 
Scarce  saw  in  all  the  room  another  face. 
Till,  checking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he  took 
Full  brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a  look 
'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glar.ce 
From  his  old  teacher's  wrinkled  countenance, 
And  pledge  him.     The  bald-head  philosopher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without  a  twinkle  or  a  stir, 
Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride, 
Brow-beating  her  fair  form,  and  troubling  her  sweet 

pride. 
Lycius  then  press'd  her  hand,  with  devout  touch. 
As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch  : 
'Twas  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his  veins  ; 
Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 
Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 
"  Lamia,  what  means  this?     Wherefore  dost  thou 

start  ? 
Kuow'st  thou  that  man  ?  "     Poor  Lamia  answer'd 

not. 
He  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 
Own'd  they  the  lovelorn  j)iteous  appeal  : 
More,  more  he  gazed  :  his  human  senses  reel : 
Some  hungry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs: 
There  was  no  recognition  in  those  orbs. 
**  Lamia  I  "  he  cried  —  and  no  soft-toned  reply. 


168  LAMIA. 

The  many  heanl,  and  the  loud  revelry 

Grew  hush  :  the  stately  music  no  more  breathes; 

The  myrtle  sicken'd  in  a  thousand  wreaths. 

By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure  ceased  ; 

A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased, 

Until  it  seem'd  a  horrid  presence  there, 

And  not  a  man  but  felt  the  terror  in  his  hair. 

"  Lamia  !  "  he  siiriek'd  ;  and  nothing  but  the  shriek 

With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break. 

"  Begone,  foul  dream  !  "  he  cried,  gazing  again 

In  the  bride's  face,  where  now  no  azure  vein 

Wander'd  on  fair-spaced  temples ;  no  soft  bloom 

Misted  the  cheek  ;  no  passion  to  illume 

The  deep-recessed  vision  :  —  all  was  blight ; 

Lamia,  no  longer  fair,  there  sat  a  deadly  white. 

"  Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruthless  man  I 

Turn  them  aside,  wretch !  or  the  rishteous  ban 

Of  ail  the  Gods,  whose  dreadful  images 

Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences, 

May  pierce  them  on  the  sadden  with  the  thorn 

Of  painful  blindness;  leaving  thee  forlorn, 

In  trembling  dotage  to  the  feeblest  fright 

Of  conscience,  for  their  long-offended^might. 

For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sophistries. 

Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 

Corinthians  !  look  upon  that  gray-beard  wretch  I 

Mark  how,  possess'd,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 

Around  his  demon  eyes  !  Coriuthians,  see  ! 

My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency." 

"^Fool !"  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under-tone 

Gruff  with  contempt ;  which  a  death-nighing  moaq 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and  lost, 

He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 

"  Fool !  Fool  !  "  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes  still 

Relented  not,  nor  moved  ;  "  from  every  ill 

Of  iifis  have  I  preserved  thee  to  this  day, 

And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's  prey  ?  " 

Then  Lamia  breathed  death-breath ;  the  sophist's  eye, 


LAM /A. 


169 


Like  a  sharp  sjjoar,  wont  tliroiigli  Ikm-  utterly, 

Keen,  cruel,  perceatit,  titiii;,'iii;,f :  »lie,  as  well 

As  lier  weak  liaiul  ecjuld  any  meaning  tell, 

Motion'd  him  to  be  silent;  vainly  so, 

Jle  l()i)k'(l  and  look'd  a;iain  a  level  —  No  1 

"  A  serpent  !  "  eclioed  he  ;   no  sooner  said, 

Than  with  a  frinhtful  scream  she  vanishi-d  : 

And  l^ycius'  arms  were  ein[)ty  of  delii;lit. 

As  were  Ins  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same  night. 

On   the.    high    couch   he   lay !  —  his    friends    came 

round  — 
Supported  him  —  no  pulse  or  breath  they  found. 
And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound.* 

•  "  I'hilostratus,  in  his  fourth  book,  de  Vita  Apollonii,  hath 
R  uiLMiionibli!  instiiiice  in  this  kind,  wliicli  I  may  not  omit,  of  on* 
Meiiippiis  Mycins,  a  youn;;  man  twenty-live  ycarJ  of  iv^t:  tliat, 
going  l)et\vixt  Oonchre.ks  ami  Corinth,  met  such  a  pliantasni  in 
tile  habit  of  a  fair  gentlewoman,  which,  taking  him  by  the  hand, 
carried  him  home  to  licr  hou.se,  in  tlie  suburbs  of  Corinth,  and 
told  him  she  wa-s  a  Plioeidciaii  by  birth,  and  if  lie  would  tarry 
with  her,  he  should  he;ir  her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine 
as  ncviT  any  drank,  and  no  man  should  molest  him  ;  but  she, 
being  fiirand  lovely,  would  die  with  him,  that  was  fiir  ami  lovely 
to  behold.  The  young  man,  a  philosopher,  otherwise  sUiid  and 
discreet,  able  to  moderat/^  his  p:issions,  though  not  this  of  love, 
tiirried  with  her  awhile  to  his  great  content,  and  at  last  marrieil 
her,  to  who.se  wedding,  amongst  other  guests,  came  Apnllonius; 
wlio,  by  some  probable  conjectures,  found  her  out  to  be  a  serpent, 
a  lamia;  and  that  all  her  furniture  wa.s,  like  Tantalus"  gold, 
described  by  Homer,  no  substance,  but  mere  illusions.  When 
Bhe  saw  herself  descried,  she  wept,  and  desired  ApoUonius  to  be 
silent,  but  he  would  not  be  moved,  and  thereupon  she,  plaie. 
house,  and  all  that  w;i.s  in  it.  vanished  in  an  instiiit ;  many  thou- 
sands took  notice  of  this  fict.  for  it  wa^i  done  in  the  midst  of 
Greece."  —  Bdrton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  Part  3,  Sect.  2 
Memb.  I  Subs.  I 


ISABELLA,  OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL : 
A  STORY   FROM  BOCCACCIO. 


FAIR  ISABEL,  poor  simple  Isabel  !^ 
Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye  ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 
Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady  ; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by  ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep, 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 


II. 


With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir. 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name. 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  sanie. 


III. 


He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes ; 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  soies: 


ISABELLA.  17J 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 

Because  hor  face  was  turu'd  to  the  same  skies ; 
And  with  sick  lon;];ing  all  the  ni<;ht  outwear, 
To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

IV. 

A  whole  lonn;  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June  : 

"  To-morrow  will  1  bow  to  my  dclijiht, 
To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon."  — 

"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune."  — 

So  spake  they  to  their  j)illows  ;  but,  alas, 

Moneyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  ; 

V. 

Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain, 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  wlio  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain  : 

"  How  ill  she  is  ! "  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak, 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  j)lain  : 

If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears, 

And  at  the  least  'twill  startle  oil"  her  cares." 


VI. 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side  ; 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 

For  power  to  speak;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 

Stilled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away  ^ 
Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride, 

Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child: 

Alas  1  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  1 


72  ISABELLA. 

VII. 

So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 

A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 
If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 

To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high ; 
She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 

And  straight  all  flush'd  ;  so,  lisped  tenderly. 
"  Lorenzo  !  "  —  here  she  ceased  her  timid  quest, 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 

VIII. 

"  O  Isabella !  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear , 

If  thou  didst  ever  anything  believe, 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 

My  soul  is  to  its  doom  :  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  feai 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing;  but  I  cannot  live 

Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

IX. 

"  Love  !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady  I  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime. 

And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time.' 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold. 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme: 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  liower  in  June's  caress. 


Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 

Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 
Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 


ISABELLA.  171 

The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart 
8lie,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 

Sanjr,  of  delicious  love  and  honey'd  dart; 
He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  iiiU, 
And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill 


XI. 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  tlie  stars  its  pleasant  veil. 

Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  umsk. 

Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale 

Ah  !  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so. 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe. 

xu. 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ?  —  It  cannot  be  — 
Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 

Whose  matter  in  bright  jjold  were  best  be  read 

Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 

XIII. 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love. 

The  little  sweet-doth  kill  much  bitterness; 
Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove. 

And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress, 
rhou<;h  youuii  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 

Was  not  enibahn'd,  tiiis  truth  is  not  the  less  ^ 
Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers, 
Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison  (lowers. 


174  ISABELLA. 


XIV 


With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandise, 

And  for  them  many  a  weury  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 

And  many  once  proud  quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinjiing  whip  ;  with  hollow  eyes 

INIany  all  day  in  dazzhng  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 

XV. 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark  ; 

For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood  ;  for  them  in  deall 
The  seal  on  the  uold  ice  with  piteous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts ;  for  them  alone  did  seetiie 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark  : 

Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 

XVI. 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  IJecause  their  marble  founts 
Gush'd  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wrctcii's  tears  V 

Why  were  they  proud  V  Because  iair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  thati  lazar  st.iirs  V 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  i-ed-lincd  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were^they  proud  ? 

XVII. 

Yet  wei-e  these  Florentines  as  sell-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 
A»  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 


ISABELLA.  ]75 

Paled  in  and  viiieyardod  from  beggar-spies  ; 
The  hawks  of  sliip-iuast  forests — the  imtired 

And  jiaiinier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies 

Quick  cat's-j)aws  on  the  generous  stray-away, — 
Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 

XVIII. 

I  low  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  V 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?      Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west? 
Yet  so  they  did  —  and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

XIX. 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Roccaecio ! 

Of  ttiee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow" 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune, 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 

XX. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 

ShaU  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 
There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet 
But  it  is  done  —  succeed  the  verse  or  fail  — 

To  honour  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  norih-wind  sum'. 


1 7«  ISABELLA. 


XXI. 


These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  lor  their  sister  had, 

And  how  she  loved  hiai  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well  nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs, 
Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  gla'.i, 

When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  hi^h  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 


XXII. 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone  ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  me»  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bom'  , 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 
Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 

Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  liim  they  bent 
Their  footing  through  the  dews  ;  and  to  him  said, 

*'  You  seem  tliere  in  the  quiet  of  content, 
Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 

Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise. 

Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 

XXIV. 

""  To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Appeninej 


tm. 


ISABELLA.  177 

Come  down,  wc  pray  tliee,  ure  the  liot  sun  count 

His  dewy  rosaiy  on  the  eglantine." 
Lorenzo,  •.•ourtt-ously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  tliese  serpents'  whine  ; 
And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness. 
With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntaiuan's  dress. 

XXV. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along. 

Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  lislen'd  oft 

If  he  could  Iiear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft ; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung. 
He  heard  a  laujih  lull  n)usical  aloft; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice  all  deliirht. 

XXVI. 

"  Love,  Isabel  I "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good  morrow : 

Ah  1  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gaiii 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 

Good  bye  I  I'll  soon  be  back."  —  "Good  bye  !"  said 
she 

And  83  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

XXVII. 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd  man 

Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 
Gurgles  through  stralghten'd  banks,  and  still  doth 
fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 
Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 
12 


178  ISABELLA. 

Tlie  brothers'  faces  in  the  foi-il  ili'l  seem, 
Lorenzo's  flush  with  love.     Tliev  pass'd  the  water 
Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease ; 

Ah     when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  fi-eedom  win. 
If  aches  in  loneliness  —  is  ill  at  peace 

As  tne  break-covert  bloodhounds  of  such  sin  : 
They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did 
tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

XXIX. 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 

Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 

Poor  girl!  put  on  thy  stilling  widow's  weed. 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow. 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

XXX. 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be  ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on,  , 

And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone  : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air. 
And  on  her  couch   low  murmuring,  "  \Vhere  ?  0 
where  ?  " 


ISABELLA.  n% 


XXXI. 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 

Its  fiery  vin;il  in  her  siii;Tle  breast  ; 
Slie  fretted  for  tlie  jrolden  hour,  and  hung 

Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest  — 
Not  lon<;  ;  for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 

or  i)igher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 
Came  tragic  ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 
And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 

XXXII. 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  amonir  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

XXXIII. 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
She  ask'<l  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  cliines 

Could  keep  him  oflf  so  long  ?    They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  (|uiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Ilinnom's  vale; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  slu'oud. 

XXXIV. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all. 


1 80  ISABELLA. 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feather'd  pall 

For  some  few  pjasping  moments;  like  a  lance, 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 

W^ith  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 

XXXV. 

It  was  a  vision.     In  the  drowsy  gloom. 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept:  the  forest  tomb 

Had   marr'd   his   glossy  hair  which    once  could 
shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 

From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 

Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake 
For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 

To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake. 
And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung  : 

Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 
As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung  ; 

And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song, 

Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briars  among. 

XXXVII. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darki-n'd  time  —  the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice  —  the  dark  pine  roof 


ISABELLA.  181 

In  the  forest  —  and  the  sodden  turfed  dell, 
Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 


XXXVIII. 

SayinjT  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortleberries  droop  above  my  ht-ad. 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  pricicly  nuts;  a  siieiipfoM  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 

XXXIX. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human  nature  dwelling 
Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass, 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knell 

And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass, 

And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telling. 
Paining   me  through  :  those  sounds  grow  strange  tc 

me, 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 


XL. 

"I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is. 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad  ; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss, 

That   paleness   warms   my   grave,  as    though   J 
iiad 

A  seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse:  thy  paleness  makes  me  gla«l 

Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal" 


1 82  ISABELLA. 


XXI. 


The  Spirit  mourn'd  "  Adieu  !"  —  dissolved  and  left 
The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft, 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil, 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  eleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 

It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache. 

And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake  ; 

XLII. 

"  Ha!  ha!"  said  she,  "  1  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery  ; 

I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  witli  sti-ife 
Portion'd  us  —  happy  days,  or  else  to  die; 

Rut  there  is  crime  —  a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy  : 

I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes. 

And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 

XLIII, 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullal)y  ; 

How  her  siiort  absence  might  be  unsurmised, 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 

And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

xnv. 

See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 
ilow  she  doth  whisper  to  tiiat  aged  dame, 


iSABELI.A.  183 

An<i,  after  lookiii;,'  round  the  chauipaijiii  wkle, 
Shows   her   a   knit'u.  —  "  What    loverous    hectic 
flame 
Hums  in  thee,  t-hild  ?  —  what  good  can  thee  belulc 
Tliat  ihou  shuuldst  smile  again  V"—  The  eveiimg 
came, 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 
The  Hint  was  there,  the  berries  at  bis  head. 


XLV. 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  churchyard. 
And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon' mole. 

Work  through  the  (.•layey  soil  and  gravel  hard, 
To  see  skull,  culUu'd  buues,  and  funeral  stole  ;^ 

Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  bath  marr'd, 
And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul? 

Ah  1  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XL  VI. 

She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Tale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell: 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLVII. 

Soon  she  turn'd  nj)  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  i)lay'd  in  purple  ])hantasies; 

She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  drieti 

And  freezes  utterly  uuto  the  bone 


184  ISABELLA. 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries ; 
Then  'gan  she  work  again  ;  nor  stay'd  her  care, 
But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 


XL  VIII. 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  labouring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing: 
Three  hours  they  labour'd  at  this  travail  sore  ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 

And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah  !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song ! 
Fair  readei-,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance, 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak  :  —  O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


With  duller  steel  than  the  Persian  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.     The  ancient  harps  lui\  e  sani 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord  : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead. 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

Twas  love  ;  cold,  —  dead  indeed,  but  not  dethron  U 


ISABELLA.  IM 


LI. 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 
And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  jroldt'ii  comb, 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash;  (he  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 

She  drench'd  away  :  and  still  she  comb'd  and  kept 

Sighing  all  day  —  and  still  she  kiss'd  and  wept. 


LII. 

Then  in  a  silken  scarf,  —  sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 

And  (livine  liquids  come  with  odoi'ous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  sei-pent-pipe  refreshfully,  — 

She  wrapp'd  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  gardeii-])0t,  wherein  she  laid  it  by, 

And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

LIII. 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 

And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees, 
And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run, 

And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze; 
She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 

And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 
Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 
And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 


LIV. 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew, 


186  ISABELLA. 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears, 

From  the  fast  mouldering  head  there  shut  fiXMn 
view : 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leaileis  spread. 

LV. 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle. 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  O  sigh  ! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily. 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms, 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 

LVI. 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene  ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go. 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery  ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead  :  She  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  his  juicy  balm. 

LVII. 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour!  — 
It  may  not  be  —  those  Baaliti's  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder'' 1  tluit  such  dowei 


I  a  A  BELLA.  187 

Of  vouth  and  biauty  should  lie  tlirown  aside 
By  one  luark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

LVIII 

And.  fiirtlKTmorc,  licr  brctliron  wonderM  much 
Why  she  sat  droopinii;  l>y  the  Basil  jireen, 

And  why  it  (lourisii'd,  ashy  niajjic  touch; 

Greatly   they   wonder'd   what    the   thing    might 
mean  : 

Tiiey  could  not  surely  <iive  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 

LIX. 

Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  wiiini ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift, 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain  : 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 
As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again: 

And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 

LX. 

Y'et  they  contrived  to  steal  tlie  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 
riie  thing  was  viK;  witli  green  and  livid  spot. 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face : 
The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 

Anil  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space. 
Never  to  turn  again.  —  Away  tliey  went, 
With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment 


188  ISABELLA. 


LXI. 


O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away  1 
O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  1 

O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  O  sigh  I 

Sjiirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way ! 
For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die ; 

Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 

Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 


LXII. 


Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things. 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously  : 

And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 

After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was;  and  why 

Twas  hid  fium  her:  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she, 

"  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 


LXIII. 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  borne 

From  mouth   to  moutii  through  all  the    iountry 
pass'd : 
Still  is  the  burthen  sung  —  "  O  cruelty, 
>To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me  I  " 


THE  EVE   OF   ST.  AGNES. 


I. 

* 

ST.  AGNES'  EVE  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was : 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  linip'd  trembling  through  the  frozen 
grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold: 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Sccni'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  rcturneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladles,  {)raying  in  dunili  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  maila 

III. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Fiatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no —  already  had  his  death-bell  rung; 


190  TBE  EVE    OF    ST.   AGNES. 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinnei-'s  sake  to  griev« 


IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  man}-  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide: 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on 
their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  reveliy, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The   brain,  new-stuff'd,  in   youth,  with   triumpns 

gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  cai-e. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare 

VI. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honev'd  middle  of  the  nic«ht. 


rilh    EVE    OF  ST.    AGNES.  19i 

If  ceremonii>s  dna  they  dii]  ari^lit ; 
As,  suppcrless  to  beil  tlicy  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  tlieir  beauties,  lily  white  ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  rc(juire 
t)f  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  lor  all  that  they  desire 

* 

vir. 

Full  of  this  wliim  was  thoujjhtful  Madeline : 
The  music,  yearniiijj  like  a  (Jod  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  b}' —  she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retii-od  ;  not  cool'd  by  hij.'h  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not:  her  heart  was  otherwhere; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 

VIII. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  (juick  and  short : 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand  :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throug'd  resort 
Of  wliisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery-  fancy  ;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  lingcr'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porpiiyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.      Hesi(ie  the  j)ortal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implorea 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 


192  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 

But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  mijiht  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  —  in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in  :  let  no  huzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  iiis  heart,  Love's  feverous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  hehl  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came. 

Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 

To  whei-e  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 

Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 

He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 

And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 

Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro !  hie  thee  from  this 

place ; 
rhey  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty 

race  I 

XII. 

"  Get  hence  1  get  hence  I  there's  dwarfish  Hilde* 

brand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  I  flit  I 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES.  19J 

Flit  like  a  gliost  away."  —  "Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
Wo'ro  sate  eiiougli ;  iiere  in  this  anu-ciiair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how  "  —  "  Good  Saints  1  not  hei-e, 

not  heie  ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  tin 

bier." 

XIII. 

He  follow'd  throufih  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushinji;  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a  —  weli-a-day  1" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  ciiill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously  * 

XIV. 

"  St.  Agnes  !  Ah  I  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  1  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  Lelp  I  my  huly  fair  the  conjurer  j^lays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  1 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  Pve  mickle  time  to  srieve.* 


XV. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  wheu  she  told 
13 


194  THE  EVE   OF  ST.  AGNES. 

His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  lilve  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  tiien  doth  he  ])ropose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  slee[)  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  lar  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  tliee.     Go,  Go !  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When    my    weak    voice    shall  whisper    its    las* 

prayer. 
If  one  of  iier  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears; 
Or  I  will,"even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 

wolves  and  bears." 


XVIII. 

"Ah  !  whv  wilt  thou  alTi-ight  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard  thing, 
Whose  ])assing-beil"  may  ere  the  midniizht  toll; 
Whose  pra.yers  for  thee,  eacih  morn  and  evening, 
Were   never  miss'd."     Thus  plaining,  dolh  she 
brino: 


THE  EVE   OF  ST.  AGNES  19A 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porpliyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  surrowing, 
Tliat  An;;ela  givos  promise  shi;  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  lier  weal  or  woe. 


XIX. 

Which  was,  to  leac]  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  ^Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  sucii  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  uncspied. 
And  win  peihaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt 


XX. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame  : 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly   on    this   feast-night :    by    the  tamboui 

frame 
Her  own  lute  tliou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait    here,   my  child,    with   patience   kneel    ir 

prayer 
The  while :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  Dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 


196  THE  EVJ^   OF  ST.   AGNES. 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  husli'd  and  chaste 
Where  Porpliyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide   hurried   back   with   agues  in   hei 
brain. 

xxn. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maifl. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd 
and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 

No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 

As  thoujih  a  tongucless  niohtinjiaie  should  swell 
•        •  •  • 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her  uelL 


XXIV. 

A  casement  hrgh  and  triple  arch'd  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  ipiaint  device, 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 

And  iu  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 


-1 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  19? 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  cmblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  ofiiui-ena 
and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  tliii  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Sa-e  wings,  for  heaven  :  Porphyro  grew  faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free   from  mortal 
taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  decrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees: 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  foir  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled 

XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  soit  of  waket"ul  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  inoi-row-day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  p.dn  ; 
Chisp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynimspray 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  thoujih  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  aijain 


198  TEE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES. 


Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  it"  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And     breathed    himself:    then    from    the    closet 

crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept. 
And  '*ween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo  !  —  how 

fast  she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Mor[)hean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  In  dying  tone  :  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd 
Witii  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez  ;  and  splccil  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 


^^ 


THE  EVE  OF  HT.  AGNES.  199 


XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  wilh  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Ot"  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perl'ume  light.  — 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  : 
Open  tliine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my   soul   doth 
ache." 


XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam; 
Broad  golden  i'ringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  scein'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  j)la}'d  an  ancient  dilty,  long  since  mute. 
In  I'rovence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy  :" 
Closi;  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  :  — 
Wherewith  disturl/d,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan  : 
He  ceai-ed  —  she  panted    (piick — and   suddenly 
Her  blue  afl'rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 


goo  THE  EVE  OF  iST.  AGNES. 


XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 
There  was  a  paintul  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  lier  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphj'ro  would  keep  , 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move   or  speak,  she   look'd  so  drean* 
ingly. 

XXXV. 

"Ah,  Porphyro  !  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  s\\»eetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear . 
How  changed  thou  art!  how  pallid,   chill,  and 

drear  ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou   diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where   to 

go." 

xxxvr. 

Beyond  a  mortal  mati  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal.  Iliish'd,  and  like  a  thi-obbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  samphire  lu-aven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  ilream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blend(>th  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against   the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hall 
set. 


TEE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES.  201 


XXXVII. 

Tis  dark:  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet  • 
*'  Tliis  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  ! " 
'Tis  dai'k  :  the  iced  jiust.s  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas!  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  I 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel  I  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  brinir  V 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Thou^ih  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thiu;i;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruued  wing.'' 

XXXVIII. 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  I 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy   beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil 

dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  piltrrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Thoujzh  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

XXXIX. 

"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise  —  arise  I  the  morning  is  at  hand  ;  — 
The  bloated  wassailers  wivl  never  heed  : 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead: 
Awake  1  arise  I  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  foi 
thee." 


802  THE  EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES. 


XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears  — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 
In  all  the  liouse  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A   chain-droop'd    lamp   was  llickering    by    each 

door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall  I 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  the}-  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sj)rawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  liis  side  : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  :  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  witli  shadi;  ;nid  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  collin-woi-m. 
Were  Ion":  bc-niirlitinaie<l.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-fbr  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


HYPERION. 

— « — 

BOOK  I. 

DEEP  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  hroath  of  morn, 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 
Sat  "iray-hairM  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  c-loud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  lijxht  seed  from  the  feather'd  (jrass, 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 
A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad'  'mid  her  reeds 
Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  rijrht  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ;  and  his  reahnless  eyes  wore  dosed  ; 
While  ills  bow'd  head  seem'd  listening  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  hiin  from  his  place 
Rut  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 
Touch'd  hia  wide  shoulders,  al"ter  bendiu"  low 
With  rfeverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not 
She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world  ; 


204  HYPERION. 

By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 

Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck  ; 

Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 

Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Meuiphian  sphinx, 

Pedestall'd  haply  in  a  palace-court, 

AVhen  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 

But  oh  !  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face  : 

How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 

Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 

Tiiere  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 

As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 

Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up. 

One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 

Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there. 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain: 

The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 

She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 

Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 

In  solemn  tenour  and  deep  organ  tone  : 

Some  mourning  words,  wliich  in  our  feeble  tongue 

Would  come  in  these  like  accents ;  O  how  frail 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods  ! 

"  Saturn,  look  up  I  —  though  wherefore,   poor  old 

King  ? 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one  : 
I  cannot  say,  '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou  ? ' 
For  heaven  is  parted  I'rom  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not,  thus  atflicted,  for  a  God  ; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise. 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command, 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  sei'ene  ilomain. 


BTPERION.  201 

(>  aching  time  !  O  moments  bijj  as  years ! 
All  as  ye  pass  sw(;ll  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep  on  :  —  O  thouizhtless,  why  did  1 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  V 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  ej'es  ? 
Saturn,  sleep  on  !   while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  sunnnor-night, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stare, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  jiradual  solitai'v  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off. 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave  : 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  larw  forehead  to  the  j^round, 
Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night. 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern  ; 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  wee[)ing  at  hia  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place. 
And  that  fiiir  kneeling  Goddess;  and  then  spake 
As  with  a  ])alsied  tongue,  and  while  his  beard 
Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady: 
"  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyi)erion, 
Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face  ; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 
Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 


206  HYPERION. 

Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 

Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 

To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the  strength  ^ 

How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth, 

While  Fate  seeni'd  stranL^led  in  my  nervous  grasp? 

But  it  is  so  ;  and  I  am  sniother'd  up, 

And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 

Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 

Of  aihnonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas, 

Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting. 

And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 

Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.     I  am  gone 

Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  left 

My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 

Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  J  sit 

Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea,  search  ' 

Open  tiiine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 

Upon  all  space :  space  starr'd,  and  lorn  of  light : 

Space  region'd  with  life-air,  and  barren  void; 

Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell. 

Search,  Thea,  search  !  and  tell  me  if  thou  seest 

A  certain  shape  or  siiadow,  making  way 

With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 

A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile  :  it  must  —  it  must 

Be  of  ripe  ])rogress —  Saturn  must  be  king. 

Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory; 

There  must  be  Gods  thrown  down,  and  trumpets 

blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children  ;  I  will  give  command ; 
Thea !  Thea  I  Thea  !  where  is  Saturn  ?  " 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  fee.t, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 


HYPERION.  207 

His  Druiil  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with  sweat, 

His  eyes  to  fever  out,  liis  voiee  to  cease. 

He  stood,  and  lieard  nut  Tliea's  sobbing  deep  ; 

A  little  time,  and  tlieii  ajrain  he  snateh'd 

Utieraiice  thus  :  —  "  But  caiiiiot  I  create  ? 

Cannot  I  form  V     Cannot  I  fashion  forth 

Another  worUl,  another  universe. 

To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  nought  ? 

^y■he^e  is  another  ciiaos  ?     Wliere  ?  ''"    That  word 

Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  ma<le  quake 

The  rebel  three.     Thea  was  startled  up. 

And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope. 

As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of  awe. 

"  This    cheers   our   fallen    house  :  come    to   oui 
friends, 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart ; 

1  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came  I  hither." 
Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she  went 
AViih  backward  footing  through  the  shade  a  space 
He  (bllow'd,  and  she  tnrn'd  to  lead  the  way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave,  upmounting  from  their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears  were  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe  : 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
(iroan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more. 
And  listen'd  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still  kept 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty  ; 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
{Still  sat,  still  snutr'd  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From  man  to  the  sun's  God,  yet  unseeure  : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shuilder'd  he, 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 


r 


208  HYPERICIN. 

Or  the  familiar  visitinji;  of  one 

Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 

Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 

I)at  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve, 

Oil  made  H}  perion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 

Bastion'd  with  pyramids  of  glowino-  o-old, 

And  touch'd  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 

(Glared  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thousand  court* 

Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries  ; 

And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 

P'lush'd  angerly  :  while  sometimes  eagles'  wings, 

Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 

Darken'd   the   place;    and    neighing  steeds   were 

heard, 
Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men. 
Also,  when  he  would  taste  the  spicy  wreaths 
Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 
Insti'ad  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savour  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick : 
And  so,  when  harbour'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 
After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day. 
For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch!| 
And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody. 
He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall ; 
While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess. 
His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 
Amazed  and  full  of  fear;  like  anxious  men 
Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops, 
When    earthcjuakes    jar    their    battlements    anC 

towers. 
Even  now,  while  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance, 
Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the  woods, 
Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear. 
Came  slope  upon  the  tlireshold  of  the  west ; 
Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 
In  smoothed  silence,  save  what  sokimn  tubes, 
Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of  sweet 


HYPERION.  20-» 

And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melodic," 
And  like  a  rose  in  veriueil  tint  and  shape, 
III  frafrrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye. 
That  inlet  to  severe  niagnifiocnce 
Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enter'd  full  of  wrath; 
His  flaming  robes  stream 'd  out  beyond  his  heels, 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  lire, 
That  seared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared, 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault, 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreatbed  light, 
And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades, 
Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stampt  his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements 'deep  to  the  higli  towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region  ;  and  before 
The  (juavering  thunder  thereupon  had  ceased, 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb. 
To  this  result:  '•  O  dreams  of  day  and  night! 
O  monstrous  forms  !     O  effigies  of  pain  !  ° 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom ! 

0  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black- weeded  pools! 
Why  do  I  know  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thiis  distraught 

To  see  and  to  behold  these  horroi-s  new  ? 
Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime. 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light. 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  j)uro  fanes, 
Of  all  my  lucent  emj)ire  ?     It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 
The  blaze,  the  splendour,  and  the  symmetry, 

1  cannot  see  —  but  darkness,  death  and  darknesa. 
Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose, 

The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 
14 


210  HYPERION. 

Insult,  and  blind,  and  stifle  up  my  pomp  — 

Fall!  —  No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  1 

Over  the  fiery  I'rontier  of  my  realms 

I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 

Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel  Jove, 

And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again." 

He  spake,  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier  threat 

Held  stru'Torle  with  his  throat,  but  came  not  forth 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 

Hubbub  increases  more  they  call  out  "  Hush  ! " 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Phantoms  pale 

Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and  cold; 

And  from  the  mirror'd  level  where  he  stood 

A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 

At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 

Crept  gradual,  from  the  feet  unto  the  crown, 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 

Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  convulsed 

From  over-strained  might.     Released,  he  fled 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy  hours 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush, 

He  breathed  fierce  breath   against   the   sleepy 

portals, 
Clear'd  them  of  heavy  vapours,  burst  them  wide 
Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through, 
Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds; 
Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid. 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 
Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  nmflling  dark 
Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 
Up  to  the  zenith  —  hieroglyphics  old. 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrolojiers 
Then  living  on  the  earth,  with  labouring  thought 
Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries  : 
Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants  huge 


BYPERWS.  211 

Of  stone,  or  marble  swart ;  tlwir  import  gone, 

Their  wisdom  long  since  fh-d.     Two  wings  tliis  orl 

Po<sess'(l  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings" 

Evi-r  exalted  at  the  God's  approacli  : 

And  now,  iVoni  forth  the  gloom  tlieir  plumes  immena 

Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  oiitspreaded  wore  ; 

W'liiie  still  the  dazzling  globe  niaintain'd  eclipsed, 

A\yaiting  tor  Hyperion's  connnand. 

Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took  throne 

And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  (or  change. 

Jle  might  not:  —No,  though  a  primeval  God  : 

'Hie  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturb'd. 

Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 

Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis  told. 

Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly, 

Eager  to  sail  their  orb;  the  porches  wide 

Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 

And  the  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with   new  woes, 

Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 

His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time; 

And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 

Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 

He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint 

There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 

Look'd  down^on  him  with  pity,  and  the  voice 

Of  Coelus,  from  the  universal  space, 

Thus  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear: 

'•  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 

Anil  sky-engender'd.  Son  of  Mysteries! 

AH  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 

Which  met  at  thy  creating!  at  whose  joys 

And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 

I,  Coelus,  wonder  how  they  came  and  whence: 

And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they  be, 

Distinct,  and  visible;  symbols  divine. 

Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 

Ditfused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space  ; 

Of  these  new-lbrm'd  art  thou,  oh  brightest  child  I 


212  HYPERION. 

Of  these,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses ! 

Thr>,re  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 
I  saw  my  first-born  tumbled  fi'om  his  throne  I 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 
Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round  his  head 
Tale  wox  I,  and  in  vapours  hid  my  face. 
Art  tliou,  too,  near  such  doom  ?  vague  fear  there  is 
For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 
In  sad  demeanour,  solemn,  undisturb'd. 
Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and  ruled: 
Now  I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,  and  wrath; 
Actions  of  rage  and  passion ;  even  as 
I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 
111  men  who  die.  —  This  is  the  grief,  O  Son  I 
Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall  1 
Yet  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  capable, 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God, 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence  :  —  I  am  but  a  voice ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides,  — 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail :  — 
But  thou  canst.  —  Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 
Of  circumstance ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
Befoi-e  the  tense  string  murmur.  —  To  the  earth 
For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his  woes. 
Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright  sun, 
And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse." — 
Ere  half  this  region-tvhisper  had  come  down 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  tlie  stars 
l-,ifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased  ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide  : 
And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad  breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas, 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep  night 


urPERlON.  ji£ 


BOOK   II. 


Just  at  the  self-samo  beat  of  Time's  wide  wings 

Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustloil  air, 

And  Saturn  pain'd  with  Tliea  that  sad  phice 

AVhorc  C)-bele  and  the  bruised  Titans  ninmiiM. 

It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 

Could  glimmer  on    their  tears;  where    their  own 

groans 
'I'hey  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 
or  ihunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse, 
Touring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seem'd 
J'vver  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleej). 
Forehead  to  foreiiead  heki  their  monstrous  horns  ; 
And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 
Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nost  of  woe. 
Instead  of  thrones,  hard  Hint  they  sat  upon-, 
Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 
Stubborn'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  assembled  : 
Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  .some  wandering. 
Cceus,  and  Gyges,  and  Rriareiis, 
Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyiion, 
With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault. 
Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath  ; 
Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element  to  keep 
Their  clenched  teeth   still  clench'd,  and   all   their 

limbs 
Locked    up    like    veins    of  metal,   cramped    and 

screwed  ; 
Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 
Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convulsed 
With  sanjjuiiie,  feverous,  boilin<jr  •rurfre  of  nulso. 
Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  tlie  world  ; 
Far  fioni  her  moon  had  Plioebe  wanderfed  ; 
And  many  else  wcie  free  to  roam  abroad. 
But  lor  the  main,  here  found  the}'  covert  dreai'. 


Ji 


9t4  HYPERION. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 

Lay  vast  and  e(]<reways ;  like  a  dismal  cirqui 

Of  Uruid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 

When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve. 

In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 

Tlie  heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 

Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbour  gave 

Or  word,  or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 

Creiis  was  one ",  his  ponderous  iron  mace 

Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 

Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined. 

liipetus  another  ;  in  his  grasp, 

A  serpent's  plashy  neck ;  its  barbed  tongue 

Squeezed    from    the    gorge,   and    all    its    uncurl'd 

length 
Dead  ;  and  because  the  creature  could  not  spit 
Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 
Next  Cottus  :  prone  lie  lay,  chin  uppermost. 
As  though  in  pain  :   for  still  upon  the  flint 
He  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 
And  eyes  at  horrid  working.     Nearest  him 
Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 
Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs. 
Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons: 
More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky  face 
For  she  was  proplu'sying  of  her  glory; 
And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 
Palm-shaded  temples,  and  higli  rival  fanes, 
By  Oxus  or  in  (ianges'  sacred  isles. 
P^ven  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans. 
So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  n]ion  a  tusk 
Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 
Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve, 
l!pon  liis  (dl)ow  raised,  all  prostrate  else, 
Sliadow'd  Enccladus  ;  once  tame  and  mild 
As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads; 
Now  tiLf(M--passion'd,  lion-thoughted,  wroth, 
He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even. now 


""^ 


HYPERION.  21; 

Was  hurllnjr  mountains  in  that  second  war, 

Not  loi)^'  (li'layM,  tliat  scared  the  youn<rer  Gods 

To  liiilc  tlieinselves  in  forms  of  beast  ami  binl. 

Not  far  lience  Atlas;  and  beside  liiin  prone 

riiorcus,  the  sire  of  Gordons.     Nei;j;hboiir'd  close 

Oeeanns,  and  Tethys,  in  whose  lap 

SoI)l)'d  Clyniene  anionir  liei-  tan^leil  hair. 

In  midst  of  all  lay  'riu'mis,  at  the  feet 

Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from  sij^ht ; 

No  shape  distinuuisliable,  more  tlian  when 

Tiiick    nigiit    contbunds    the    pine-tops    with     the 

clouds  : 
And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be  told. 
For  when  the  muse's  win^js  are  air-ward  spread, 
"Who  sliall  delay  her  flight?      And  she  must  chant 
Of  Saturn,  an(i  his  jj;ui(le,  who  now  had  clindjed 
With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a  depth 
More  horrid  still.     Above  a  sombre  clilF 
Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature  grew 
Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  fotmd  ease  : 
Then  Tliea  spread  abroad  her  trembling  arms 
Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain. 
And  si<lelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  face  : 
There  saw  she  <lirest  strife;  the  supreme  God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  an.\iety,  revenge, 
Rt-morse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  despair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain  :  for  Fate 
Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 
A  (iisanointing  j)oison  :  so  that  Thea, 
Affrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 
First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe. 

As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more, 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same  bruise  ; 
So  Saturn,  as  he  walk'd  into  the  midst, 


216  HYPERION. 

Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the  rest, 

But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 

VVhose  mightiness,  and  awe  of  him,  at  once 

Came  hke  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  shouted, 

"  Titans,    behold    your    God ! "    at    whicli    soma 

gioan'd  ; 
Some  started  on' their  feet ;  some  also  shouted  ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd  —  all  bow'd  with  reverence ; 
And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Sliow'd  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  forehead  wan 
Her  eyebrows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow  eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring  in  tlie  bleak-grown  pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice  ;  there  is  a  noise 
Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign. 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utterless  thousht, 
Witii  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with  pomp : 
Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines ; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountain'd  world, 
No  other  sound  succeeds  ;  but  ceasing  here. 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  otlier  harmonies,  stopt  short, 
Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up  :  —  "  Not  in  my  own  sad  breast, 
Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out, 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 
Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 
Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 
\Vhich  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 
Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  wlien  the  wavei 
J>ow-ebb'd  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom ; 
And  tlie  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 
For  my  firm-based  footstool :  —  Ah,  infirm  ! 
Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  ])ortent 
Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire, — 
At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 
One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all. 


HYPERION.  217 

Each  several  one  against  the  other  thrt»e, 

As  fire  witli  air  IolkI  warring  wlicn  rain-flooils 

Drown  liotli,  and  press  thoui  botli  aj^ainst  i-arth'j 

("ace, 
Wliere,  tindiiii;  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 
Unhiiiijes  the  jioor  world  ; —  not  in  that  strife, 
WherefroMi  1  take  slraiijj;e  lore,  and  read  it  deep, 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus  : 
No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  thouj^h  I  search, 
And  pore  on  Nature's  univeisal  scroll 
Even  to  swooninj;,  why  ye,  Divinities, 
The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  Gods, 
IShould  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison, 
Is  untreniendous  miij;ht.     Yet  ye  are  here, 
O'erwhelni'd,    and    spurn'd,   and    batter'd,   ye    are 

here  ! 
O  Titans,  shall  I  say  'Arise  ! '  —  Ye  groan  : 
Shall  1  sav  '  Ciouch  ! '  —  Ye  groan.     What  can  I 

then  V 
O  Heaven  wide  !     O  unseen  parent  dear  ! 
What  can  I  ?     Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gods, 
How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath  1 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 
I'onderest  high  and  deep;  and  in  thy  face 

1  sec,  aslcnied,  that  severe  content 

Which    comes   of   thought   and    musing :  give    uj 
help  !  " 

So  ended  Saturn  ;  and  the  God  of  the.  Sea, 
So])hIst  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove, 
Hut  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades. 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began, 
In  murmm-s,  whi(di  his  first  endeavourinii  tongue 
Caught  infanl-like  Irom  the  iar-ibamed  sands. 
"  O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes  1  who,  passion-stung, 
Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies ! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stitle  up  your  ears, 


218  BTPERION. 

My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 

Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring  prool 

How  ye,  perfoi'ce,  must  be  content  to  stoop  : 

And  in  the  jjroof  much  comfort  will  I  give, 

It'  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 

AVe  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not  force 

Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.     Great  Saturn,  thou 

Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe  ; 

l->ut  for  this  reason,  that  thou  art  the  King, 

And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy, 

One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 

Tiiroiigh  which  I  wander'd  to  eternal  truth. 

And  fust,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  powers, 

So  art  thou  not  the  last;  it  cannot  be. 

Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  cad. 

From  ehaos  and  parental  darkness  came 

Light,  the  first  fruits  of  that  intestine  broil, 

That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous  ends 

Was  ripening  in  itself.     The  ripe  hour  came. 

And  with  it  liirht,  and  liffht  enaenderinu 

Upon  Its  own  jjroducer,  forthwith  touch'd 

The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 

U[)on  that  very  hour,  our  parentage. 

The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest : 

Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant-race. 

Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous  realms 

Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  'tis  pain  ; 

O  folly  !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 

And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm. 

That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty.     Mark  well ! 

As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 

Than    Chaos    and    blank    Darkness,  though   once 

chiefs ; 
And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth 
In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful, 
In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship. 
And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life  ; 
So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 


HYPERION.  'zi% 

\.  power  more  stroii;^  in  brauty,  born  of  us 
And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 
In  jilorv  that  old  Darkness  :  nor  are  we 
I'luTeby  nioi-e  foncpuTcd  lliaii  by  ns  the  rule 
Of  shapeless  Cliaos.      Say,  doth  the  didl  soil 
l^iiarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath  fed, 
And  feedeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself? 
Can  it  deny  the  cliietiiom  ot'  j.'reeii  <;i'uves  ? 
Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  liove 
Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  winp;s 
To  wander  wherewithal  and  (ind  its  joys  ? 
AVe  are  such  forcst-trecs,  and  our  fair  boughs 
Have  bred  Ibrth,  not  pale  solitary  doves, 
But  eagles  jiolden-feathei'd,  who  do  tower 
Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reiga 
In  ri^lit  thereof;  for  'tis  the  eternal  law 
riiat  liist  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might: 
Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
j\Iy  dispossessor  V     Have  ye  seen  his  face  'i 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  ibam'd  along 
By  noi)le  winged  creatures  he  hath  made? 
1  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud, 
W'itii  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
To  all  my  em|)ii'e  ;  farewell  sad  I  took. 
And  hither  c.ime,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye  ;  and  how  I  might  best 
(live  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  bo  your  balm." 

Whether  through  j)ozed  conviction,  or  disdain, 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
lA'fl  murmuring,  what  deepest  tiiouglit.can  tell  V 
But  so  it  was,  none  answer'd  for  a  space. 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Clymene : 
And  yet  she  answer'd  not,  only  complain'd, 


220  HYPERION. 

With  hectic  lips,  and  (!yes  up-looking  mild, 

Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce  : 

"  O  Father !  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice, 

Anil  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone, 

And  this  thing  woe  crept  in  among  our  hearts. 

There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  I  fear : 

I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 

So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 

Which  by  just  right  should  come  of  mighty  Goda; 

Yet  let  me  tell  my.  sorrow,  let  me  tell 

Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me  weep, 

And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all  hope. 

I  stood  upon  a  sliore,  a  pleasant  shore, 

Wheie  a  s.vveet  clime  was  breathed  from  a  land 

Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and  flowers 

Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  1  of  grief; 

Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth  ; 

So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 

To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 

With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes  ; 

And  sat  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed  shell 

And  murmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody  — 

0  melody  no  more  !  for  while  I  sang, 
And  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 
The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  bowery  strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea. 

There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting  wind 
That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my  ears. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand, 
And  a  wave  fill'd  it,  ks  my  sense  was  fill'd 
With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody. 

A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 

Each  family  of  ra|)turous  hurried  notes, 

That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once. 

Like  pearl  beads  dro[)ping  sudden  from  their  sti  ino 

And  then  another,  then  another  strain. 

Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch, 

With  music  wing"d  instead  of  silent  plumes, 


HYPERION.  221 

To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me  sick 
Of  joy  and  jrrief  at  once.     Grief  overcame, 
And  I  was  stoppini:  up  my  frantic  ears, 
When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling  haiuis 
A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all  tune, 
And  si  ill  it  cried,  '  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  I 
The  morning-bright  Apollo  !  young  Apollo  I ' 
I  (led,  it  foUow'd  me,  and  cried,  'Apollo!' 
()  Father,  and  O  Brethren  I  had  ye  felt 
Those  pains  of  mine  I  O  Saturn,  hadst  thou  felt, 
Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
Presumptuous,  m  thus  venturing  to  be  heard  ! " 

So  far  her  voice  flow'd  on,  like  timorous  brook 
That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast, 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea  :  but  sea  it  met. 
And  sliuddcr'd  ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  huge  P^nceladus  swallow'd  It  in  wrath  : 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks, 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his  arm 
He  lean'd  ;  not  rising,  from  supreme  contempt. 
"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise, 
Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods  ? 
Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armoury  were  spent, 
Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled. 
Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
Speak  I  roar  !  shout !  yell  !  ye  sleepy  Titans  all. 
Do.ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile  ? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the  Waves, 
Tiiy  scalding  in  the  seas  ?     What !  have  I  roused 
Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words  as  these  ? 
O  joy  !  for  now  1  see  ye  are  not  lost : 
O  joy  !  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 
Wide  irlarinir  for  revenue."  —  .Vs  this  he  said, 


222  HYPERION. 

He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood, 

Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus  : 

"  Now  ye  are  flames,  I'll  tell  you  how  to  burn, 

And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies ; 

How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire, 

And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of  Jove, 

Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  it«  tent. 

O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done  ; 

For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore, 

Much  pain  have  I  for  more  than  loss  of  realms . 

The  days  of  peace  and  slumberous  calm  are  fled  ; 

Those  days,  all  innocent  of"  scathing  war, 

When  all  the  fair  Existences  of  lieaven 

Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would  speak  :  — 

That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught  to  frown, 

Before  our  lips  knew  else  but  solemn  sounds; 

That  was  before  we  knew  the  winiied  tliin<T, 

Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 

And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 

Our  briglitest  brother,  still  is  undisgraced  — 

Hyperion,  lo  !  his  radiance  is  here  !  " 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face. 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's  name 
Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stei-n  : 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself     He  look'd  upon  them  all. 
And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light. 
But  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar  locks 
Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 
When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight  cove. 
In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd. 
Till  suddenly  a  s[)lendour,  like  the  morn. 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 
All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion, 
And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 
And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth. 


BYPERION.  223 

Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with  loud  tormented  strean  j . 
And  all  tht;  everhistiii;^  cataracts, 
And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 
Mantled  belurc  in  darkm-ss  and  huge  sliade, 
Now  saw  the  li^ht  and  made  it  terrible. 
Ir  was  Hyperion  :  —  a  granite  peak 
Ills  bright  feet  tonch'd,  and  there  he  staid  to  view 
The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 
To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself. 
Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 
Regal  liis  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 
In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 
Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 
To  one  who  travels  from  the  dusking  East: 
Sighs,  too,  as  mournfid  as  that  Memnon's  harp, 
He  utter'd,  while  his  hands,  contemplative. 
He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 
Despondence  seized  again  the  fallen  Gods 
At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 
And  many  liid  their  faces  from  the  light: 
But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 
Among  the  brotheriiood  ;  and,  at  their  glare, 
Uprose  liipetus,  and  Creiis  too, 
And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 
To  where  he  tower'd  on  his  eminence. 
There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's  name  ; 
Hyperion  from  ihc  peak  loud  answer'd  "Saturn  I" 
Saturn  sat  near  the  iMother  of  the  Gods, 
In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods 
Gave  from   their   hollow   throats   the   name  of 
"  Saturn  1 " 


224  HTPERIO^. 


BOOK  III. 

Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace, 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them,  Muse!    O  leave  them  to  their  woea 

For  thou  art  weak  to  sins  sueh  tumults  dire  : 

A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 

Thy  lips,  and  antheminjr  a  lonely  grief. 

Leave  them,  O  Muse  !  for  thou  anon  wilt  find 

Many  a  falk'u  old  Divinity 

Wanderiug  in  vain  about  bewilder'd  shores. 

Meantiuie  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp, 

And  not  a  wind  of  heaven  but  will  breathe 

In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute  ; 

For  lo  1  'tis  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 

Flush  every  thing  that  hath  a  vermeil  hue. 

Let  the  rose  <rlow  intense  and  warm  the  air, 

And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 

Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills ; 

I^et  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil, 

Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  faint-lipp'd  shells, 

On  sands  or  in  great  doeps,  vermilion  turn 

Through  all  their  labyrinths;  and  let  the  maid 

Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  surprised. 

Chief  isle  of  the  embowered  Cyclades, 

Rejoice,  O  Delos,  with  thine  olives  green, 

And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and  beech, 

In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest  song, 

And  hazels  thick,  dark-stemm'd  beneath  the  shade 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme  ! 

Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 

Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers  ? 

Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 

And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower. 

And  in  the  morning  twilight  wander'd  forth 

Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet. 

Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 


BTPfRJOA  22; 

Thi!  nightingale  had  ceased,  an.  I  a  fu  iv  stirs 
Were  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the  thru:h 
Begiin  (-•aim-throated.     Tlirou;ilic,ut  all  the  isle 
Then;  was  no  covevt,  no  retired  cave 
Unhauiitfd  hy  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves, 
Though  S'.-arcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess 
He  lisleu'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  Liright  tears 
Went  trickling  down  tlie  golden  bow  he  held. 
Tims  with  halt-shut  sulFused  eyes  he  stood, 
While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs  hard  \y 
With  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came, 
And  there  was  j)urport  in  her  looks  for  him, 
Wiiicii  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 
Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said: 
"  How  earnest  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ? 
Or  liiith  that  anticjue  mien  and  robed  form 
Moved  ill  these  vales  invisible  till  now? 
Sure  I  have  heard  those  vestments  sweeping  o'er 
The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 
[n  cool  mid-forest.     Surely  I  have  traced 
The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 
These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers 
Lift  up  their  heads,  and  still  the  whisper  pass'd. 
jToddess !  I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 
^nd  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face, 
J)r  I  have  dream'd."  —  "  Yes,  "  said  the  supreme 

sh'ipe, 
'•  Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me  ;  and  awaking  up 
Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side. 
Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all  the  ■vast 
Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 
Listen'd  in  pain  and\  [)leasure  at  the  birth 
Of  such  new  tmieful  wonder.     Is't  net  strange 
That  thou  shouldst  weep,  so  gifted  ?  Tell  iie,  yi  uth, 
What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel ;  for  I  anj  sad 
Vriien  thou  dost  shed  a  tear:  explain  thy  pnefe 
To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 
The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life, 
15 


^26  HYPERION. 

From  tlie  young  day  when  first  thy  infant  hand 

Pluok'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine  arm 

Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 

Show  thy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient  Power 

Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 

For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 

Of  loveliness  new-born." —  Apollo  then, 

With  sudden  scrutiny  and  jxloomless  eyes. 

Thus  answer'd,  while  his  white  melodious  throat 

Throbb'd  with  the  syllables  :  — "  iMnemosyne  I 

Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  1  know  not  how  ; 

Why  should  I  tell'thee  what  thou  so  well  seest  ? 

W'hy  should  I  strive  to  show  what  from  thy  lips 

Would  come  no  mystery  V     For  me,  dark,  dark, 

And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes: 

I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad, 

Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs ; 

And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan. 

Like  one  who  once  had  wings. —  O  why  should  1 

Feel  cursed  and  thwarted,  when  the  liegeless  air 

Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?  why  should  1 

Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my  feet? 

Goddess  benign  !  point  forth  some  unknown  thing 

Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  V 

What  are  the  stars  '?     There  is  the  sun,  the  sun  1 

And  the  .most  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon  ! 

And  stars  by  thousands  !     Point  me  out  the  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star, 

And  I  will  fiit  into  it  with  my  lyre. 

And  make  its  silvery  splendour  pant  with  bliss. 

I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder  :   Where  is  power 

Whose  hand,  whose  essence,  what  divinity 

Makes  this  alarum  in  the  elements, 

While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shores 

In  fiearless  yet  in*^a<'hing  ignorance? 

O  tell  me,  "lonely  Goddess !  by  thy  harp, 

That  waileth  every  morn  ami  eventide. 

Tell  me  why  ♦hus  I  :-a,ve,  about  these  groves  I 


arPERION.  221 

Mute  tlioii  remaincst  —  Mute?  yet  I  can  read 

A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 

Knowledn-e  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 

Names,  (leeds,  jjrey  le^rcnds.  dire  events,  rebellions, 

Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 

Creations  and  dcstroyinfrs,  all  at  once 

Pour  into  tin;  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 

And  deify  mo,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 

Or  bright  elixir  j)eerless  I  had  drunk, 

And  so  become  immortal."  —  Tiius  the  God, 

Wiiile  his  cidiindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 

Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  steadfast  kept 

Tremliling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 

Soon  wild  commotions  shook  him,  and  made  flush 

All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs  : 

Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death  ; 

Or  like  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 

Of  pale  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 

As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 

Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd; 

His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 

Ke[)t  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 

During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one  who  pro])lu'sied.  —  At  length 

Apollo  shriek'd  ;  —  and  lo  !  from  all  his  limbs 

Celestial  


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


What  more  felirity  nan  fill  tn  creature 
tbrna  to  eajfoy  delight  with  liberty  ? 

FcM  of  the  Butterfly.  —  apitisti 


DEDICATION. 


TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ. 

Qloky  and  loveliness  liave  pass'd  away  ; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  earl_v  morn, 

No  wreatiied  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east  to  meet  the  smilin,^  day: 
No  crowds  of  nymphs  soft-voiced  and  young  and  gaj 

In  woven  bas'kets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  m  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these. 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That  in  a  time  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free, 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  1  could  please 

With  these  poor  ofl'erings,  a  man  like  thee 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Places  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made.  —  Story  of  Rimini. 

[STOOD  ti[)toe  upon  a  little  hill, 
The  air  was  cooliiiji,  ami  so  very  still, 
That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 
Pull  (lrooi)iiii;ly,  in  slantiuir  curve  aside, 
Tiu'ir  scanty-leaved,  and  finely-tapering  stems, 
Had  not  yet  lost  the  starry  diadems 
Caught  iVom  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 
The  clouds   were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new- 
shorn, 
And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook ;  sweetly  they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 
A  little  noiseless  noise  anionnf  the  leaves, 
Horn  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves; 
For  not  the  faintest  motion  eouid  be  seen 
Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 
There  was  wide  wandering  lor  the  greediest  eye, 
To  peer  about  upon  variety  ; 
Far  round  the  liorizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 
And  trace  tlie  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim  •, 
To  picture  out  tlie  (piaint  and  curious  bending 
Of  a  fresh  wooillaud  alley  never-ending: 
Or  bv  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  slielves, 
(Juess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 
I  gazed  awhile,  ami  felt  as  light,  and  free 
As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 
Had  play'd  upoi\  my  heels:   I  was  light-hearted. 
And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started; 
So  I  straightway  began  to  pliii'k  a  posy 
Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 


^L 


\ 


282  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about  them; 
Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without  them  ! 
And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversvveep  them, 
And  let  long  grass  gi'ow  round  the  roots,  to  keep 

them 
Moist,  cool,  and  green  ;  and  shade  the  violets, 
That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert-hedge  with  wild-briar  overtwined. 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Ui)on  their  summer  thrones  ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent-chequer  of  a  youngling  tree. 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  tiie  (jnaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots  : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters, 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters. 
The  spreading  blue-bells  :  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scatter'd  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds. 
Ye  ardent  marigolds ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 
For  great  Apollo  bids 

'Jliat  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 
On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 
And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 
Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses:  ^ 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale. 
His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale.     * 

Here  are  sweet  j)eas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight : 
With  winnfs  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  hngers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 
Linger  awhile  upon  some  beniling  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  233 


And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings  : 

Tiiev  will  bo  found  softer  th;ui   ring-doves'  cooin<»a 

How  silent  eomes  the  waler  round  that  bend  I 

Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 

To  the  o'erhan^ing  sallows:  blades  of  i^rass 

Slowly  across  the  clieiiuei-'d  shadows  pass. 

Why  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds  ; 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little   heads 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand  ! 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain: 

But  tiii'ii  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses. 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald  tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  tiiemselves,  they  freshness  (rive, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  mav  live; 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favours", 

Jvike  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviours. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low-hung  branches:  little  space  they  stop; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek  ; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak  : 

Or  jK'rliaps,  to  show  their  black  and  golden  winfs, 

I'ausing  upon  their  yellow  llutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

That   nought    less   sweet   might  call   my  thoughts 

awa}-. 
Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 
Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down  ; 
Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 
Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 
How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caughl 


+ 


SS4  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ! 

O^let  me  lead  lier  gently  o'er  the  brook, 

Watch  Iier  half-smilinir  lips  and  downward  look; 

O  let  mK  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist ; 

Let  me  one  moment  to  iier  breathing  list  • 

And  as  she  leaves  me,  may  she  often  turn 

Her  fair  eyes  looking  throngli  her  locks  auburne. 

What  next  ?  a  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 

O'er  which  tlie  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes; 

O'er  which  it  well  might" take  a  pleasant  sleep, 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  divers  motlis,  that  aye  their  rest  are  qurttin<T  ; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim  " 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

O  Maker  of  sweet  poets!  dear  deli'dit 

Of  this  fair  world  and  all  its  gentle^livers  ; 

Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers,' 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams, 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondermg  ! 

Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell  deligiitful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine; 

And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid. 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade  : 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  winixs. 

The  soul  is  lost  in  jjleasant  smotherings: 

Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faix's, 

And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases  ; 

O'erhcad  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet-briar. 

An  J  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire; 

While  at  our  feet,  the  voice^of  crystal  bubbles 


\ 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  235 

Charms  us  at  once  away  fioni  all  our  troubles : 
So  (liat  we  feel  uijlifted  irom  the  world, 
Walkiurr  upon  the  wliite  clouds  wrealh'd  and  curlU 
So  i'fit  he,  wlio  first  told  how  P.-^yche  went 
On  the  smooth  wiii<l  to  realms  of  wonderment; 
^Vhat  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 
First  touch'd;  what  amorous  and  I'ondlinjj  nips 
They  gave  each  other's  cheeks;  with  all  their  sighs, 
And  how  they  kist  each  other's  tremulous  eyes : 
The  silver  lamp, —  the  ravishment  —  the  wonder  — 
The  darkness  —  loneliness  — the  fcaiful  thunder; 
Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  uj)  llown, 
To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 
So  did  he  feel,  who  puH'd  (he  boughs  aside. 
That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide, 
'i'o  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 
Coming  wilh  softest  rustle  through  the  trees; 
And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and  sweet, 
Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  si)orting  feet: 
Telling  us  how  fair  trembling  Syrinx  fled 
Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 
Poor  Nvmph, —  poor  Pan,  —  how  did  he  weep  ta 

find 
Nought  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 
Along  the  reedy  stream  !  a  half-heard  strain, 
Full  of  sweet  desolation  —  balmy  pain. 

What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sin" 
Xarcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  sjiring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round; 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 
Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool 
The  blue  sky,  here  and  there  serenely  peeping, 
Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creeping. 
And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spieil, 
A  meek  and  forlorn  flowi-r,  with  nought  of  pride, 
Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clearness, 


236  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness : 
Deaf  to  lii;lit  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move ; 
But  still  would  sceui  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love. 
So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot, 
Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot' 
Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 
Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale. 

Where  had   he  been,  from    whose    warm    head 
outflew 
That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new, 
That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness, 
Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonliijht  ?  to  him  brinsinw 
Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  smging 
From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests. 
And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 
Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 
Ah  !  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars ; 
Into  some  wondrous  region  he  had  gone, 
To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion  ! 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too, 
Who  stood  on  Latmus'  top,  what  time  there  blew. 
Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below  ; 
And  brought,  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow, 
A  hymn  from  Uian's  temple;  while  upswelling, 
The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 
But  thougii  her  face  was  clear  as  infants'  eyes, 
Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 
The  poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate, 
Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate: 
So  in  fine  wrath  some  goMen  sounds  he  won, 
And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion 

Queen  of  the  wide  air;  thou  most  lovely  queen 
Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have  seen ! 
As  thou  exceedcst  all  things  in  thv  shine. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  237 

So  every  tale  does  tliis  sweet  tale  of  tliine. 
O  lor  lliive  words  of  honey,  that  I  mi^rht 
Tell  but  one  wondur  of  thy  bridal  ni<'ht ! 

WIi07-e  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keels 
Phadjus  awhile  delay 'd  his  mighty  wheels, 
And  turn'd  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes, 
Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnize. 
The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  elear, 
That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer; 
Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call, 
Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal: 
And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm, 
As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm. 
The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure. 
And  crept  ihrongli  half-closed  lattices  to  cure 
The  languid  sick  :  it  cool'd  their  fever'd  sleep. 
And  soothed  them  into  .slumbers  full  and  deep. 
Soon    they    awoke    clear-eyed:    nor    burn'd    with 

thirsting, 
Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting: 
And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wondering  sight 
Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  d'dight ; 
Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss,  and  staro 
And  on  their  jdacid  Ibreheads  part  the  hair. 
Young  men  and  maidens  at  each  other  gazed, 
With  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amazed 
To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other's  eyes; 
And  so  they  stood,  fill'd  wiih  a  sweet  surprise, 
Until  their  tongues  were  loosed  in  poesy. 
Thei  efore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die  : 
But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  UKmient  spoken, 
Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  bi'oki-n. 
Cynthia  !  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses 
That  follow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  she[)herd's  kisses 
Was  there  a  poet  born  ? —  But  now  no  more  — 
My  wandering  spirit  must  no  farther  soar 


238  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A 
POEM. 

LO  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  ; 
For  large  white   plumes  are   danoing  in  mint 
eye. 
Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days  . 
But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways; 
So  gracel'ul,  tliat  it  seems  no  mortal  hand, 
Or  e"en  the  touch  of  Archiniago's  wand, 
Could  charm  them  into  stich  an  attitude. 
We  must  think  rather,  that  in  pl.iyl'ul  mood, 
Some  mountain  breeze  had  turn'd  its  chief  delight 
To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might. 
Lo!  I  nmst  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  ; 
For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  [)oints  slantingly 
Athwart  the  morning  air;  some  lady  sweet, 
Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet, 
From  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 
Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent; 
And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissembling, 
Wraps  round    her  ample  robe    with  happy   trem- 
bling. 
Sometimes   when  the  good  knight  his  rest  could 

take. 
It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake, 
With  the  young  ashen  bough.s,  'gainst  which  it  rests 
And  th'  half-seen  mossiness  of  linnets'  nests. 
Ah  !  sliall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty, 
Wlien  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye, 
And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasjjing  it, 
And  his  daik  brow  for  very  wrath  is  knit  V 
Or  when  liis  s])irit,  with  more  calm  intent 
Leaps  to  the  honours  of  a  tournament, 


MISCELLANEOnS  POEMS.  23s 

And  makes  the  jrazers  round  about  the  ring 

Stare  at  the  jrraii(U'ur  of  the  balancing? 

No,  110  !   this  is  ("ir  olF:  —  tlieri  how  shall  I 

Revive  tiie  dyiiii:  tones  of  minstrelsy, 

Whicli  linger  yet  about  long  gotliic'arehes, 

III  (lark  green  ivy,  aiul  ainotig  wild  larches? 

How  sing  the  splendour  of  the  revelries. 

When  butts  of  wine  are  dr.uik  o(T"  to  tiie  lees? 

And  that  bright  lanee,  against  the  fretted  wall, 

Jieneath  the  slia<Ie  of  stately  banneral. 

Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and  shield  V 

Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field, 

Liglit-footed  damsels  move  with  gentle  paees 

Hound  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy  faces : 

Or  stand  in  eourtly  talk  by  fives  and  seveiis: 

Like  those  fair  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  heavens. 

Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry: 

Or  wherefore  comes  that  knight  so  proudly  bv  ? 

Wherefore  more  prouiJIy  does  the  ger.iie  kniirht 

Rein  in  the  swelling  of  his  ample  might  .■* 

Spenser!  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind, 

And  come  like  a  clear  sun-rise  to  my  mind  ; 

And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance, 

When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance : 

Where  never  yet  was  aught  more  earthly  seen 

Than  the  pure  freshness  of  thy  laurels  green. 

Therefore,  great  bar<l,  I  not  so  fearfully 

Call  on  thy  gentle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 

My  daring  steps:  or  if  thy  tender  care, 

Thus  startled  unaware, 

lie  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 

Sliould  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of  light 

Tiaced  by  thy  loved  Libertas;   he  will  speak. 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek  ; 

That  I  will  follow  jvith  due  reverence, 

And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange  pretence 

Him  thou  wilt  hear ;  so  I  will  rest  in  hope 

To  see  w^de  plains,  fair  treeSj  9,\\A  lawny  slope ; 


240  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The    morn,    the    eve,    the    liglit,    the    shade,    the 

flowers ; 
Clear    streams,    smooth    lakes,    and    overlookini' 

towers. 


CALIDORE. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


YOUNG  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake; 
His  healthtal  spirit  eager  and  awake 
To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve, 
Which  seem'd  full  loth  this  happy  world  to  leave, 
The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  lingeringly. 
He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky, 
And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around, 
Uiilil  his  heart  is  well  nigh  overwound. 
And  turns  for  calmness  to  the  pleasant  green 
Of  easy  slopes,  and  shadowy  trees  that  lean 
So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 
And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 
Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eyesight  follow 
The  freaks  and  dartings  of  the  black-wuig'd  swal 

low, 
Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest. 
Dip  so  refreshingly  its  wings  and  breast 
'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark  anon, 
The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comi's  up  with  ripple,  and  with  easy  float 
And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water-lilies: 
Broad-leaved  are  they,  and  their  white  canopies 
Are  upward  turn'd  to  catch  the  heavens'  dew. 
Near  to  a  little  island's  point  they  grew; 
Whence  Calidore  might  have  the  goodliest  view 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  on 

Of  tills  sweet  spot  of  eartli.     The  bowery  shore 
\Vent  off  in  gentle  windiiiijjs  to  tlie  lioar 
And  liiilit  blue  mountains  :  but  no  breathing  man 
AVith  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  to  scan 
Nature's  clear  beauty,  could  pass  lightly  by 
Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitingly 
On  either  side.     These,  gentle  CaHdorc 
Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leafiness, 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun  in  gold  doth  dress, 
Whence,  ever  and  anon,  the  joy  outspiings, 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  j^ings. 

The  lonely  turret,  shatter'd,  and  outworn, 
Stands  venerably  proud;  too  proud  to  mourn 
Its  long-lost  grandeur:  fir-trees  grow  around, 
Aye  dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the  ground. 
The  little  ch:ipel,  with  the  cross  above, 
Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy  ;  the  white  dove, 
That  on  the  windows  spreads  his  feathers  light. 
And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its  flight. 

Green  tufted  islands  casting  their  soft  shades 
Across  the  lake  ;  sequester'd  leafy  glades. 
That  through  the  dinniess  of  their  twilight  show 
Large  dock-leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  tlie  glow 
Of  the  wild  cat's-eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems 
Of  delicate  birch-trees,  or  long  grass  which  hems 
A  little  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been  viewing 
These  pleasant  things,  and  heaven  was  bedewing 
The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  jjlad  senses  cau-iht 
A  trumpet's  suver  voice.      An!   it  was  fraught 
With  many  joys  for  him:  the  warder's  ken 
Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the  glen, 
Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see ; 
So  i)ushcs  oir  his  boat  most  eagerly. 
And  soon  upon  the  lake  he  skims  along, 
16 


-J- 


242  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Deaf  to  tlie  ni^litingale's  first  uinlur-soin' , 

Nor  minds    he    the    white   swans   that    dream    su 

sweetly : 
His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 
And  now  he  turns  a  juttiiiii'  point  of  land, 
Whence  may  be  seen  the  castle  gloomy  and  grand: 
Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling  ])eaches, 
Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 
Those  marble  steps  that  thi-otigh  the  water  dip  : 
Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip, 
And  scarcely  stays  to  ope  the  folding  doors: 
Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 
Of  halls  and  cori'idors. 

Delicious  sounds !  those  little  bright-eyed  things 
That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings, 
Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the  clang 
Of  clattering  hoofs;  into  the  court  he  sprang, 
Just  as  two  noble  steeds,  and  palfreys  twain, 
Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosen'd  rein  ; 
While  from  beneath  the  threatening  portcullis 
They  brought  their  happy  burthens.     AViiat  a  kiss, 
AVhat  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's  hand  ! 
How  tremblingly  their  delicate  ankles  spann'd  I 
Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone, 
While  whisperings  of  affection 
Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 
Come  to  the  earth;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 
From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they  bent : 
And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languishment, 
Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearl'd  their  tresses, 
He  feels  a  moisture  on  his  check,  and  blesses 
With  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening  eye, 
All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand, 
Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  land. 
Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  the  drooping  flowers 
Of  whitest  Cassia,  fresh  from  summer  showers  : 
And  this  he  fondled  with  his  hapuy  cheek, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POE.^fS.  24S 

As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  soi-Ic  : 
Wlien  tlie  kind  voice  of  j;ood  Sir  Clcrininiid 
C.une  to  liis  ear,  like  sometliinif  frum  l)o\ond 
His  present  beinp: :  so  he  gently  drew 
His  warm  arms,  thrillia;i  now  with  pulses  new, 
From  their  sweet  tin-all,  and  forward  gentlv  bendin;;, 
Tliank'd  Heaven  that  his  joy  was  never-eiidina  ; 
While  'irainst  his  forehead  he  devoutly  press'd 
A  li and  Heaven  made  to  succour  the  distress'd  ; 
A  hand  that  from  the  world's  bleak  promontory 
Had  lifted  Calidore  for  deeds  of  Glory. 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches'  glare, 
There  stood  a  knight,  patting  the  flowing  hair 
Ot"  his  ])roud  horse's  mane  :  he  was  withal 
A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall: 
So  that  the  waving  of  his  plumes  would  be 
High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild  ash-tree, 
Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercurj-. 
His  armour  was  so  dexterously  wrought 
In  sha[)e,  that  sure  no  living  man  had  thought 
It  hani  and  heavy  steel  :  but  that  indeed 
It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid  weed, 
In  which  a  spirit  new  come  from  the  skies 
Might  live,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 
'Tis  the  far-famed,  the  brave  Sir  Gondibert, 
Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert; 
While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of  grace 
Came  u]i,  —  a  courtly  smile  upon  his  face. 
And  mailed  hand  held  out,  I'eady  to  greet 
Tiie  large-ejed  wonder,  and  ambitious  heat 
Of  the  as|>iring  boy  ;  who  as  he  led 
Those  smiling  ladies,  often  turn'tl  his  head 
To  admire  the  visor  arch'd  so  gracefully 
Over  a  knightly  brow;  while  they  went  by 
The    lamps   that   from    the    high-roof'd  hall  were 

pendent, 
And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  transcendent. 


244  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are  seated, 
The  sweet-li])j)'cl  hidies  have  already  greeted 
AH  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window  clamber 
To  sliow  their  purple  stars,  anil  bells  of  amber 
Sir  Gondibert  has  doft'd  his  shining  steel, 
(jiladdening  in  the  free  and  airy  feel 
Of  a  light  mantle ;  and  while  Clerimond 
Is  looking  round  about  him  with  a  fontl 
And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 
To  hear  of  knightly  deeds,  and  gallant  spurning 
Of  all  un worthiness;  and  how  the  strong  of  arm 
Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 
From  lovely  woman  :  while  brimful  of  this, 
He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss, 
And  had  such  manly  ardour  in  his  eye, 
Tliat  each  at  other  look'd  half-staringly  : 
And  then  their  features  started  into  smiles, 
Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  enchanted  isles. 
Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came, 
Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  flame  ; 
Clear  was  the  song  from  Philomel's  far  bower; 
Grateful  the  incense  fiom  the  lime-tree  flower; 
Mysterious,  wild,  the  far-heard  trumpet's  tone  ; 
Lovely  the  moon  in  ether,  all  alone  : 
Sweet  too  the  converse  of  these  happy  mortals, 
As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 
Are  closing  in  the  West:  or  that  soft  humming 
We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming.. 
Sweet  be  their  sleep.       ...... 


MlSCELLA.\£OUti  POKMS.  943 


TO  SOME  LADIES, 

ON    RECEIVING    A    CURIOUS   SHELL. 

WHAT  thouprli,  while  the  wonders  of  natur* 
exploring, 
I  cannot  your  light,  mazy  footsteps  attend  ; 
Nor  listen  to  ac-conts,  that  almost  adoring. 
Bless  Cynthia's  face,  the  enthusiast's  friend  : 

Yet  over  the  steep,  whence  the  mountain-stream 
rushes, 
With  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove  ;. 
Mark    the   clear  tumbling   crystal,   its    passionate 
gushes, 
Its  spray,  that  a  wild  flower  kindly  bedews. 

Why  linger  ye  so,  the  wild  labyrinth  strolling? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  declare? 
Ah  1  you  list  to  th(^  nightingale's  tender  condoling, 

Kesponsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moon-beamy  air. 

'Tis  morn,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are  yet  droop- 
ing, 

I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the  sea  : 
And  now  !  ah,  I  see  it  —  you  just  now  are  stooping 

To  pick  up  the  keepsake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending, 

Had    bioiight   me  a  gem  from  the  fretwork  ot 
Heaven  ; 
And    smiles  with    his    star-cheering  voice  sweetly 
blending. 
The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously  given ; 


246  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emf  tion 

Than  the  |)rcsent,  fair  nymphs,  I  was  blest  with 
from  you  : 
Than  the  sliell,  from  the  bright  golden  sands  of  the 
ocean, 
Which    the    emerald  waves  at  your  feet  gladly 
threw. 

For,  indeed,  'tis  a  sweet  and  peculiar  pleasun--, 
(And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness  find.>,J 

To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  COPY  OF  VERSES 
FROM  THE  SAME  LADIES. 

HAST  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Fun^  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the  moun- 
tain '? 
Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem, 

When  it  flutters  in  sunbeams  tliat  shine  through 
a  fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 

That  gol)Iet  riglit  lieavy,  and  massy,  and  gold  ? 
And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  divine 

Of  Aruiida  the  fair,  and  Ilinaldo  the  bold  ? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flowincj? 

Hast  thou  a  sword  that  thine  enemy's  smart  is  ? 
Hast  thou  a  truuipet  rich  melodies  blowing  ? 

And  wear'st   thou  the  shield  of  the  famed  Bri' 
tomartis  ? 

\Vliat  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder  so  brave, 
Euibroidcr'd  with  many  a  spring-pcei-ing  (lower  y 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  247 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  tliy  fair  lady  j^avc  ? 

And  Imstest  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's  bower  ? 

All !  courteous  Sir  Knight,  wiih  large  joj'  thou  art 
crown'd  ; 

Full  nianv  tlie  "lories  that  brijrhton  thv  youth 
1  will  ti'll  tliee  my  blisses,  wliirii  riclily  abound 
h\  magical  powers  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 

Oni  this  scroll  thou  seest  written  in  characters  fair 
A  sun-bcamin!^  tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a  chain : 

And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 

Of  charming  my  mind  from  the  trammels  of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark  :  'tis  the  work  of  a  fay ; 

Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberon  languish, 
Wiien  lovely  Titania  was  lar,  i'ar  away, 

And  cruelly  left  him  to  sorrow  and  anguish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft-sighing  lute 
Wild  strains  to  which,  apell-bound,  the  nightin- 
gales listen'd  ! 
The  wondering  s[)irits  of  Heaven  were  mute. 

And  tears  'mong  the  dewdrops  of  morning  oft 
glisten'd. 

In  this  little  dome,  all  those  melodies  strange, 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melting,  for  ever  will  sigh  ; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  their  tenderness  change 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the  rose. 

And  list  to  tlie  tale  of  the  wreatli,  and  the  chain, 
Till  its  echoes  depart ;  then  I  sink  to  repose. 

Adieu!  valiant  Eric  !  with  joy  thou  art  crown'd, 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth, 


248  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

I  too  have  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless,  and  to  soothe 


TO 


HADST  thou  lived  in  days  of  old, 
O  wiiat  wonders  had  been  told 
Of  thy  lively  countenance, 
And  thy  humid  eyes,  that  dance 
In  tlie  midst  of  tiieir  own  brightness, 
In  the  very  fane  of  lightness ; 
Over  which  tiiine  eyebrows,  leaning, 
Picture  out  each  lo\ely  meaning  : 
In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie, 
Like  the  streaks  across  the  sky, 
Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow, 
Fallen  on  a  bed  of  snow. 
Of  thy  dark  hair,  that  extends 
Into  many  grat'eful  bends : 
As  the  leaves  of  hellebore 
Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 
And  behind  each  ample  curl 
Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl. 
Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 
With  a  glossy  waviness. 
Full,  anil  round  like  globes  that  rise 
From  the  ccns(M'  to  the  skies 
Through  sunny  hair.     Add  too,  the  swectnesi 
Of  thy  lionii'd  voice  ;  the  neatness 
Of  thine  ankle  lightly  tiu'n'd  : 
With  those  beauties  scarce  discern'd, 
Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy. 
That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 
Of  the  liUle  Loves  that  lly 
Round  about  with  eager  pry. 
Saving  when  with  freshening  lave, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  'MS 

Tliou  (lipp'.st  tlit'in  ill  the  taintless  wave; 

Like  twill  water-lilies,  born 

III  the  eooliiess  of  the  morn. 

O,  if  thou  liadst  bi-eathed  then, 

Now  the  .Mdses  iiad  been  ten. 

CoLildst  thou  wish  for  hnea^re  hifrlier 

Than  twin-sister  of  Thalia'? 

At  least  for  ever,  evermore 

Will  I  call  the  Graees  four. 

Hadst  thou  lived  when  ehivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high, 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah  !  1  s(;e  the  silver  sheen 

Of  thy  broider'd-floating  vest 

Coverinir  liaif  thine  ivory  breast: 

Which,  O  Heavens  !  I  should  see, 

But  that  cruel  Destiny 

Has  placed  a  golden  cuirass  there, 

Keeping  secret  what  is  fair. 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested, 

Thy  locks  ill  knightly  casque  are  resica 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  pluiues, 

Like  the  gentle  lily's  blooms 

Springiny;  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Come*  thin'!  alabaster  steed ; 

Servant  of  lieroic  deed ! 

O'er  his  loin.>),  his  trapnings  glow 

Like  the  northeni  lights  on  snow. 

Mount  his  back  !  ti.y  sword  unshenthJ 

Sign  of  the  enchanters  death* 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell; 

Silencer  of  dragon's  yell. 

Alas!  thou  this  wilt  never  do: 

Thou  art  an  enchantress  too. 

And  wilt  sur(-ly  never  spill 

Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kiU. 


250  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  HOPE. 

ATTTIEN  by  my  solitary  hearlh  I  sit, 
y  y      Ami    liatel'ul   thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  it 
frloom ; 
\Vhon  no  lair  dreams  before  my  "mind's  eye"  flit, 

And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom  ; 
Sweet  Hope  !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night, 
AVhere  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  brijjht 
ray, 

Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright, 
And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away, 

Peep  with  the  moonbeams  through  the  leafy  roof, 

And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof. 

Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 
Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart 

When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air. 
Preparing  on  his  spell-bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chase  iiim  away,  sweet  Hope,  witii  visage  bright, 

And  fright  him,  as  the  morning  frightens  night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 
Tells  to  my  fearful  breast  a  tale  of  soriow, 

O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer; 
Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  conilbrts  borrow; 

Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me  shed. 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head ! 

Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 
From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair, 

O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 
To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnight  air  1 

Sweet  Hoj)e  !  ethereal  balm  uj)om  nie  shed. 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 


^**mmi 


-L 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  251 

In  the  Ion;;  vista  of  the  rears  to  roll, 

Li't  nie  not  see  our  country's  honour  fade  I 

()  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul  ! 

Ilcr  pride,  lier  freedom  ;  aiul  not  fieeflom's  sliade 

From  thy  liri^ht  eyes  unusual  bri^litness  shed  — 

Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head ! 

Let  me  not  see  tiie  patriot's  IiIltIi  heipicst. 
Great  lil)erty  !  iiow  preat  in  jjlain  attire! 

Witii  tlu'  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress'd, 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  exfjire  : 

hut  let  me  see  thee  stoop  from  Heaven  on  wings 

That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  ";litterin2S  ! 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bi-igiit  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud  ; 
lirightening  tiie  half-veil'd  face  of  heaven  afar  : 

So,  when  dark  tiioughts  my  boding  s])irit  shroud, 
Sweet  Hope  !  celestial  inlUience  round  me  shed, 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

February,  1815. 

•— 


IMITATION  OF  SFENSER. 


NOW  morning  from  her  orient  chamber  camu 
And    her   first   footsteps  toucli'd  a  verdant 
hill: 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  amber  flame, 
Silv(uing  the  untaint(al  guslu'S  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  |)ure  Irom  mossy  beds,  did  down  distil, 
And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
l)y  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  i-ellectcd  woven  bowers, 
Aud,  in  its  middle  sj)ace.  a  sky  thai  never  lowers. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

There  the  kinirfisher  saw  his  plumaije  bright, 
Vying  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below ; 
Whose  silken  fins'  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow  ; 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  s^iow. 
And  o;»r'd  liiniself  along  with  majesty: 
Sparkled  Iiis  jetty  eyes ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah  !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter'teen  : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye  : 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters  ;  or  as  when  on  hish, 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the  coem 
lean  sky. 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriouslv 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy  tide, 
VVhich,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity. 
Rippled  delighted  up 'the  flower}' side  ; 
As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears  it  tried. 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem  .' 
Haply  It  was  the  workings  of  its  pride, 
In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvying  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 


\VoMAN  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain. 
Inconstant,  childish,  j)roud,  and  full  of  fhnci.-.H 
Without  that  modest  softening  (hat  enhances 

Ihe  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  25S 

That  its  mild  liLrlit  creates  to  lical  again  ; 

E'en  tliuii,  itliite,  my  spirit  leaps  and  j)raiice9, 

E'en  tlien  my  soul  with  exultation  dances 
For  that  to  love,  so  lonji,  I've  dotmaiit  lain  : 
But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and  tender, 

Heavens  I  how  desperately  do  I  adore 
Thy  winning-  jrraees  ;  —  to  be  thy  defender 

I  hotly  burn  —  to  be  a  Calidore  — 
A  very  Red  Cross  Knight  —  a  stout  Loander  — 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair ; 

Soft    dimpled   hands,   white    neck,  and  creamj 
breast ; 

Are  things  orywhieh  the  dazzled  senses  rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures.  Heavens  !  I  cannot  dare 

To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd 

They  be  of  what  is  worthy,  —  though  not  drest, 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark  ; 

These  lures  I  straight  Ibrget,  —  e'en  ere  I  dine, 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten  :  but  when  I  mark 

Such  charms  with  mild  intelligences  shine, 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark, 

To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah  !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  beinc:  ? 
Who  can  ibi'get  her  half-retiring  sweets  V 
God  !  she  is  like  a  milk-white  lamb  that  bleats 
For  man's  |}roleclion.      Surely  the  All-seeing, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing, 
^\'ill  never  give  him  pinions,  who  intreats 
Such  innocence  to  ruin, —  who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth  there  is  no  freeing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beaut}' ;  when  I  hear 

A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake, 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near  : 


254  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbour  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear, 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture  shake 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

MY  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  ofheuilock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk  : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  hapjiiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  |)lot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  sliailows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deei)-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country -green, 

Dance,   and    Provencal  song,   and   sun-burnt 
mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  hubbies  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  pur[)le-stained  mouth; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  Ibrest  dim  * 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 
dies ; 


MISCELLANEOUa  POEMS.  jsg 

Where  but  to  tliink  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
Where  beautv  cannot  keep  her  kistrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-uiorrow 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  I'oesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards. 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  Is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
While  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast-fading  violets  eover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  Hies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die. 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
W  hile  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy  I 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  ia  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


2dg  miscellaneous  poems. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  Imngry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  tliis  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perliaps  the  selt'-same  song  tliat  found  a  path 
Tlirough   the  sad  heai't  of  Ruth,  when  sick  foi 
home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  tlie  ahen  corn  \, 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  [)erilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  mj^  sole  self  I 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  I  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  m-eadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  :  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

TIIOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  1 
Thou  tbster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  aboufthy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 

In  Tempo  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?  what  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  V  \Vhat  wild  ecstasj « 


/ 


MISCELLANKOU.'i   POEMS.  259 

Fairer  than  Pliocbc's  sappliirc-regionM  star, 
Or  Vesper,  amorous  jilow-worm  of  the  ^*k}• ; 

Fairer  than  tliese,  tlioui;li  temple  tliou  hast  none, 
Nor  altar  lieap'd  with  (lowers  ; 

Nor  Virgir)-ehoir  to  make  deheiou.s  moan 
Upon  the  nii(liii;:lit  lioiir>  ; 

No  voice,  no  lute,  no  p  pe,  no  incense  sweet 
From  chain-swung  censer  teeming  ; 

No  slirine,  no  grove,  no  orach',  no  heat 
Of  pale-moulird  propliet  ilieamiTig. 

0  l)riglitest  !  thoiigli  too  hite  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 
Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire  ; 

Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired 
From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 
Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 

So  let  nie  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moaa 
Upon  the  midnight  hours  I 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming: 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  orai^le,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreamiu'^ 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind. 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new-grown  with  pleasant 
pain. 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind  : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  l)irds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Diyads  siiall  be  luU'd  to  sleep; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain, 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name, 


i 


260  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feifn, 

AVho  breeding  flowei-s,  will  never  breed  the  same 
And  there  shall  be  lor  thee  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 

To  let  the  waiTn  Love  in  I 


FANCY. 

EVER  let  the  Fancy  roam, 
Pleasure  never  is  at  homo  : 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 
Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 
Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her 
Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 
She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 
O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use. 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  : 
Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 
Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  fagot  blazes  brijiht. 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  mufiled. 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuflled 
From  the  jiloughboy's  heavy  i-.hoon  ; 
When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 
With  a  mind  sell-overawed, 
Fancy,  high-commission'd  :  —  send  her,' 


MlSCELLAyKOUS   POKSfS.  26 1 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 

Slio  will  briiirr,  in  spite  ol'  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  eartli  hath  lost; 

She  will  briiiL;  iheo,  all  tojrether, 

All  delights  of  sununer  we.tther  ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  s|)ray  ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  eup, 

And  thou  shalt  quafT  it :  —  thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-earols  elear; 

Hustle  of  tiie  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  : 

And,  in  the  same  moment  —  hark  1 

'Tis  the  early  A[)ril  lark. 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  stieks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 

White-plunnul  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  (jueen  of  the  mid-May  ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Fearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 

Freckled  nest  eags  thou  shalt  see 

TT  1    • 

Hatchmg  \n  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  winii  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 


t(;2  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Oil,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Every  tliinj^  is  spoilt  by  use  ; 
Where's  the  elieek  that  doth  not  fiide, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?     AViiere's  the  maid 
AVhose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?     Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Wliere's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  V 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  i>V'i  oelteth. 
Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  llrid 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  : 
Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter 
Ere  the  (iod  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide  ; 
With  a  waist  and  witli  a  side 
White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 
While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 
And  Jove  grew  languid.  —  Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fanc\'s  silken  leash  ; 
Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 
And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring.  — 
Lot  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE. 


BARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  sonU  r-r  earth 
Have  ye  souls  in  heave.,  ioo. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moor.  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  26S 

With  the  noise  of  foimtains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  tliHiid'rous  ; 
Witli  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Bi-owst'd  by  tione  but  Dian's  fawns  ; 
Underneath  lar^e  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nij;htinj:ale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again  ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you. 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  ami  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day. 
Wisdom,  though  lied  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  I 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-hved  in  regions  new  I 


^64  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturinjr  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eavea 
run  ; 
To  bend  with  apples  tlie  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shell? 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more. 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease. 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy 
cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  ha!f-reap'd  furi-ow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of   poppies,   while   thy 
hook 
Spares   the    next   swath    and    all   its  twined 
flowers  ; 
And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 
Oi"  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look. 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?    Av,  where  arc 
they  ? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 
While  barrec]  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  263 

And  toncli  tlie.  slnbble-plainn  wiili  rosy  hue; 
TIk'M  ill  a  wailful  clioir  tlie  small  gnats  "mourn 
Among  tiie  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  tlie  light  wind  lives  or  ilies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Ilfdge-crirkets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY. 

V[0,  no  !  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
X\      Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  lor    its    poisonom 

wine  ; 
Nor  sudl'r  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  I'roserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsilv. 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  souL 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  iail 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  Howcrs  all, 

^  And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud  ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave. 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies  ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emjirison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty  —  Beauty  that  must  die; 
And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  bis  lips 


266  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Bidilinjx  adieu  ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poi.-ion  while  the  bee-mouth  sips: 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuoui 
tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

SOULS  of  poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  ^lermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  fiew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whicher,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story,  — 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory. 
Underneath  a  new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine. 
And  pledging  with  contented  snaack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  {«; 

Souls  of  poots  (load  and  ;:one, 
Wliat  Klysiuiu  liave  }e  known, 
Happy  I'mUl  or  mossy  cavern, 
ChoicBr  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 


ROBIN  HOOD. 

TO    A    FKIEXD. 

NO  !  those  days  arc  pone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years: 
Many  times  have  ^V'illter'3  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  fiiillinjj;  Etist, 
Soundeil  tempests  to  tlie  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whisperinj^  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leasee 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  t\van;j;iiig  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh. 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wiglit,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  lijzht  vou. 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  vou; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  tiie  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 


268  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 

Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  befTuile 
To  fair  hostess  Merrinien-t, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent  ^ 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spiey  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "  greene  shawe;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  tufted  grave, 
And  if  ]\Iarian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze. 
He  would  swear,  tor  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her  —  strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money ! 

So  it  is ;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honour  to  the  old  bow-strin<r  I 
Honour  to  the  bugle  horn  I  ° 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green  I 
Honour  to  the  archer  keen  I 
Honour  to  tight  Little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon  I 
Honour  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  undei'wood  ! 
Honour  to  j\Iaid  Maiian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan  I 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  261 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

Ah.  I  lay  It  my  bed  sippe  full  unmete 

^Va8  unto  me,  but  why  tliat  1  iie  might 

Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'  as  erthly  wight 

(As  I  suppose)  had  more  of  hertis  ese 

Than  I,  for  I  n'  ad  sicknesse  uor  dLiese.  —  CiunciR. 

WHAT  is  mere  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  7 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty  hum- 
mer 
That  stays  one  moment  in  an  open  ffower, 
And  buzzes  cheerily  from  bower  to  bower  ? 
What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  niusi<-iose  blowing 
In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  knowing? 
More  healthful  than  the  leafmess  of  dales  ?  ° 
More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales? 
More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countimance? 
More  lull  of  visions  than  a  high  romance? 
What,  but  thee,  Sleep  ?  Soft  closer  of  our  eyesl 
Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies  ! 
Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows! 
AVreathcr  of  popjiy  buds,  and  weeping  willows  ! 
Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses" 
Most  happy  listener!  when' the  morning  blesses 
Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 
That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sun-rise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thouglit  than  thee? 
Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain-tree  ? 
More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  smooth,  more 

regal, 
Than   wings  of  swans,   than   doves,  than  dim-seen 

eagle  ? 
What  is  it?     And  to  what  shall  I  compare  it  ? 
It  has  a  glory,  and  nought  else  can  share  it: 


270  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  thou<i;ht  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  boly, 
Chasing  away  all  worlilliness  and  folly: 
Coming  sometimes  lik^.  fearful  claps  of  thunder; 
Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  under; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gentle  wliis[)ering 
Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wondrous  thine 
That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air; 
So  that  we  look  around  with  prying  stare, 
Perhai)S  to  see  shapes  of  li^ht,  aei'ial  limnino:; 
And  catch  soft  lloatings  from  a  faint-heard  hymn< 

■ng; 

To  see  the  laurel-wreath,  on  high  suspended, 
That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is  ended. 
Sometim"3  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 
And  from  the  heart  up-springs,  rejoice  !  rejoice ! 
Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Fraraer  of  all  things, 
And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings. 

No  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has  seen, 
And  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 
For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must  know 
What  'tis  1  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow: 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit. 
By  telling  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 

O  Poesy !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen, 
That  aui  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 
Of  thy  wide  heaven  —  should  I  rather  kneel 
Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel 
A  glowing  splendour  round  al)out  me  hung, 
And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own  tongue  ? 
O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen, 
Tiiat  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 
Of  thy  wide  heaven  ;  yet,  to  my  ardent  prayer, 
Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air, 
Smooth'd  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 
Of  flowering  bays,  that  I  may  die  a  death 
Of  luxury,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  271 

The  morning  sunbeams  to  the  great  Apollo, 

Like  a  fVesh  .sacrifice ;  or,  if  I  can  bear 

Tlie  o'crwlichuing  sweets,  'twill  bring  me  to  thw  fail 

Visions  of  all  places :  a  bowery  nouk 

AVill  be  elysium  —  an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  coj)y  many  a  lovelv  sayin" 

About  the  leaves,  and  (lowers  —  about  the  i)lavin" 

(»f  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains;  and  the  shade 

Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid ; 

And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 

That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 

It  came.     Also  imaginings  will  hover 

Ilound  my  fire-side,  and  haply  there  discover 

Vistas  of  solemn  beauty,  where  I'd  wander 

In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  Meander 

Through  its  lone  vales  ;  and  where  I  found  a  spot 

Of  awfuller  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot, 

Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  ehecjuerM  dress 

Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness, 

Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted, 

All  that  was  for  our  Imman  senses  fitted. 

Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I'd  seize 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  s[)irit  tease 

Till  at  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 

Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 

Stop  and  consider  !  life  is  but  a  day  ; 
A  fragile  dewdroj)  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
AVhile  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montmorenci.     Why  so  sail  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown  ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 
A  pigeon  tunlbling  in  clear  summer  air; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
liiding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 


272  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy !  so  I  may  do  tlie  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 
Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 
In  long  perspective,  and  continually 
Taste  their  pure  fountains.     First  the  realm  I'll  paai 
Of  Flora,  and  Old  Pan  :  sleep  in  the  grass, 
Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries, 
And  choose  each  pleasure  tiiat  my  fancy  sees, 
Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady  places, 
To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  averted  faces  — 
Play  with  their  fingers,  touch  their  shoulders  white 
Into  a  pi'etty  shrinking  with  a  bite 
As  hard  as  lips  can  make  it :  till  agreed, 
A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we'll  read. 
And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 
May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest : 
Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread, 
Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her  head, 
And  still  will  dance  with  ever-varied  ease, 
Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees  : 
Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on. 
Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinnamon ; 
Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 
We  rest  in  silence,  like  two  gems  upcurl'd 
In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell  ? 
.  Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life, 
Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 
Of  human  hearts :  for  lo  !  I  see  afar, 
O'cr-sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 
And  steeds  with  streamy  manes  —  the  charioteer 
Looks  out  upon  the  winds  v/ith  glorious  I'ear : 
And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  (juiver  lightly 
Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge ;  and  now  with  sprightly 
Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresijer  skies, 
Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright  eyes. 


MISCELLANi:OUS  POE.yfS.  2"S 

Still  downward  witli  rapacious  whirl  they  glide; 

And  iijw  I  .see  tlieiii  on  a  green  hill  .side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodiling  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  wondrous  gesture  talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains;  and  there  soon  appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mastery,  and  fear, 

Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks ;  as  they  would  chase 

Some  ever-fleeting  music,  on  they  sweep. 

Lo  !  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smile,  and  weep  . 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe; 

Some  with  their  faces  mullled  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms ;  some  clear  in  youthful  bloom, 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward  gaze; 

Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  ditrerent  ways 

Flit  onward  —  now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls ; 

And  now  broad  wings.     Most  awfully  intent 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward  bent, 

And  seems  to  listen  :  O  that  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrvin<T  "low  ! 

The  visions  all  are  fled  —  the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong. 
And,  lik",  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 
My  soui  to  nothingness  :  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all  doublings,  and  will  keep  alive 
The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the  strange 
Journey  it  went. 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  ])repare  her  steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange  deeds 
Upon  the  clouds  ?  Has  she  not  shown  us  all  ? 
JS 


274  MISCELLANEOUS  P0EM8. 

From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 

Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding  ?  From  the  meaning 

Of  Jove's  large  eyebrow,  to  the  tender  greenmg 

Of  April  meadows  V  here  her  altar  shone, 

E'en  in  this  isle  ;  and  who  could  paragon 

The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 

Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 

Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound. 

Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 

EteT-nally  around  a  dizzy  void  ? 

Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy  d 

With  honours  ;  nor  had  any  other  care 

Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy  hair. 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten  ?     Yes,  a  schism 
Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism. 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 
Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 
His  glories  :  with  a  puling  infant's  force 
They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 
And  thought  it  Pegasus.     Ah,  dismal-soulVl ! 
The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roU'd 
Its  gathering  waves  —  ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 
Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 
Of  summer  night  collected  still  to  make 
The  morning  precious  :   Beauty  was  awake  I 
Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were  dead 
To  things  ye  knew  not  of,  —  were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile  :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit. 
Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task  : 
A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  imj)ious  race  1 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face, 
And  did  not  know  it,  — -  no,  they  went  about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepit  standard  out, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  271 

MarkM  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  iJoileau  ! 

O  ye  wliosc  charge 
It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  liills  ! 
AVhose  con;j;renated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  lh;it  I  cannot  trace 
Your  halh)w'(l  names,  in  this  unholy  place, 
So  near  those  connnon  folk  ;  did  not  tlieir  shames 
AHVijrlit  you  ?     Did  our  old  lamenting  Thames 
Delight  you  ?     Did  ye  never  cluster  round 
J)elicIous  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound. 
And  weep  ?     Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  more  the  hiurel  grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  could  proudly  sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?     'Twas  even  so: 
But  let  me  think  away  tho>e  times  of  woe  : 
Now  'tis  a  fairer  season  ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us  ;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands :  for  sweet  nmsic  has  been  heard 
In  many  places;  some  has  been  upstirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake, 
15y  a  swan's  ebon  bill  ;  from  a  thick  brake, 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild, 
Bubbles  a  pipe  ;  fine  sounds  are  floating  wild 
About  the  earth  :  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 
These  things  are,  doubtless :  yet  in  truth  we've  had 
Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of  song  ; 
Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and  strong, 
From  mnjesty  :  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 
Are  ugly  cubs,  the  Poet's  rolyphenies 
Disturbing  the  grand  sea.     A  drainless  shower 
Of  light  is  poesy  ;  'tis  the  supreme  of  power; 
'Tis  migliL  half  slmnbenng  on  its  own  light  arm 
The  very  archings  of  her  eyelids  charm 
A  thousand  williti"  agents  to  obev, 
Aud  still  she  governs  with  iho  mildest  sway  : 


276  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

But  utrenglli  alone  tliouj;li  of  the  Muses  born 

Is  lil.e  a  fallen  angel :  trees  uptorn, 

Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and  sepulchres 

Deii-ht  it ;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs 

And  thorns  of  life  ;  forgetting  the  great  end 

Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 

To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 

Yet  I  rejoice  :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 
E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 
Lifts  its  sweet  heap  into  the  air,  and  feeds 
A  silent  space  with  ever-sprouting  green. 
All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen, 
Creep  tln-ough  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering, 
Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers  and  sing. 
Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choking  thorns 
From  round  its  gentle  stem  ;  let  the  young  fawnt 
Yeaned  in  after-times,  when  we  are  flown, 
Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 
With  simple  flowers  :  let  there  nothing  be 
More  boisterous  than  a  lover's  bended  knee  , 
Nought  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 
Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book  ; 
Nought  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy  slopes 
Between  two  hills.     All  hail,  delightful  hopes  I 
As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 
Into  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone, 
And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 
Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 
O  may  these  joys  bo  ripe  before  I  die  ! 

Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously 
Have  spoken  V  that  from  hastening  disgrace 
'Twere  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face  ? 
That  whining  boyhood  should  with  reverence  bow 
Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach  me  V    How 
If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 
In  the  very  fane,  tho  light  of  Poesy : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  277 

If  I  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  bu  laid 

Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poi)lar  shade  ; 

And  over  me  tin*  grass  shall  be  smooth  siiaven  , 

And  there  shall  be  a  kind  memorial  graven. 

But  o(T',  Despondence  !  miserable  b;ine  ! 

They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to  ^ain 

A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  fvery  hour. 

What  though  I  am  not  woalthy  in  the  dower 

Of  spanning  wisdom  ;  though!  do  not  know 

The  shiftings  of  the  mighty  winds  that  blow 

Hither  and  thither  all  the  changing  thou'ihts 

Of  man :    though    no    great    ministering    reasoo 

sorts 
Out  the  (lark  mysteries  of  human  souls 
To  elear  conceiving:  yet  there  ever  rolls 
A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 
Therefrom  my  liberty  :  thence  too  I've  seen 
The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.     'Tis  clear 
As  anything  most  true  ;  as  that  the  year 
Is  made  of  the  four  seasons  —  manifest 
As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's  crest, 
Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.     Therefore  should  I 
Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 
A  coward,  did  my  very  eyelids  wink 
At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to  think. 
Ah  I  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 
Over  some  precipice  ;  let  the  hot  sun 
Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me  down 
Convulsed     and     headlong  ?      Stay !    an    inward 

frown 
Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 
An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an  isle. 
Spreads  awfully  before  me.     How  much  toil 
How  many  days  I  what  desperate  turmoil! 
Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  wi<lenesses. 
Ah,  what  a  task  !  upon  my  bended  knees, 
1  could  unsay  those  —  no,  impossible  ! 
Impossible ! 


278  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

For  sweet  relief  I'll  dwell 
On  liumbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange  assay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades  : 
I  turn  full-hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooth  the  path  of  honour;  brotherhood, 
And  friendliness,  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 
The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant  sonnet 
Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ; 
The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming  out; 
And  when  they're  come,  the  very  pleasant  rout: 
The  message  certain  to  bo  done  to-morrow. 
'Tis  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to  borrow 
Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug  retreat, 
To  cluster  round  it  when  we  next  shall  meet. 
Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  airs 
Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in  pairs 
Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling. 
When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender  falling 
And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 
Stooping  their  shoulders  o'er  a  horse's  prance, 
Careless,  and  grand  —  Angers  soft  and  round 
Parting  luxuriant  curls  ;  and  the  swift  bound 
Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  cyo 
Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 
Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  How 
Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 


Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 
To  trains  of  peaceful  images  :  the  stirs 
Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  the  rushes: 
A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes: 
A  butterfly,  with  golden  wings  broad-parted, 
Nestling  a  rose,  convulsed  as  though  it  smarted 
With  over-[)leasure  —  many,  many  more, 
Miglit  I  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 
Of  luxuries :  yet  I  must  not  forget 
Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet : 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  279 

For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 

I  partly  owe  to  him  :  and  thus,  tlie  chimes 

Of  friendly  voii-es  had  just  ^.'iven  place 

To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  1  '"lan  retrace 

The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 

It  was  a  poet's  iiousc  who  keeps  tlie  keys 

Of  pleasure's  temple  —  round  about  were  hung 

The  jrlorious  features  of  the  bards  who  sung 

In  other  a2;es  —  cold  and  sacred  busts 

Smiled  at  "each  other.     Happy  he  who  trusts 

To  clear  Futurity  his  darlinu'  fame  ! 

Then  there  were  fauns  and  satyrs  taking  aim 

At  swellinir  apples  with  a  frisky  heap 

And  reaching  iingcrs,  'mid  a  luscious  heap 

Of  vine-leaves.     Then  tiiere  rose  to  view  a  fane 

Of  liney  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 

Of  nvmphs  approaching  fairly  o'er  the  sward: 

One,'loveliest,  holding  lier  white  hand  toward 

The  dazzling  sun-rise  :  two  sisters  sweet 

Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 

Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  cliild  : 

And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild 

Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 

See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 

Cherishin<jly  Diana's  timorous  limbs  ; 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle  motion 

With  the  snl)siding  crystal :  as  when  ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 

The  patient  weeds;  that  now  unshent  by  foam 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 

Sa-ppho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling  down 

At  notliing;  just  as  though  the  earnest  frown 

Of  over-thinking  had  that  moment  gone 

From  oir  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  be  always  listen'd  to  the  siuli-s 


J80  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Of  the  goaded  world  ;  and  Kosciusko's,  worn 
By  horrid  suffrance  —  mightily  forlorn. 

Petrarch,  outstepping  from  the  shady  green, 
Starts  at  the  sight  of  Laura ;  nor  can  wean 
His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  iiappy  they  I 
For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 
Of  outspread  wings,  and  from  between  them  shone 
The  face  of  Poesy :  from  off  her  throne 
She  overlook'd  tilings  that  I  scarce  could  tell, 
The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 
Keep  sleep  aloof:  but  more  than  that  there  came 
Thougiit  after  thought  to  nouiish  up  the  flame 
Within  my  breast ;  so  that  the  morning  light 
Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night; 
And  up  I  rose  refresh'd,  and  glad,  and  gay, 
Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 
These  lines;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 
I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


STANZAS."^ 

IN  a  drear-nigh  ted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  tree. 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 
Their  green  felicity: 
The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nlghted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Tliy  bidihlings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting. 


MiaCELLANEOnS  POEMS. 


28  J 


They  stay  their  crystal  fretting. 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  I  would  'twere  so  with  ni;inv 
A  fjentle  j;irl  and  boy  ! 
Rut  were  there  ever  any 
Writlied  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  ehanjie  and  feel  it, 
Wlien  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  luunbfd  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


.^tt0^ 


'^UM 


EPISTLES. 


Among  the  rest  a  ^lirphonl  (thouprli  Init  young 
Yet  hartneil  to  hi^>  pipe)  with  till  the  skill 
His  few  yeores  could,  begun  to  flil'his  (injll. 

Britannia^s  PastoraLi.  —  Urowms 


EPISTLES. 


TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATIIEW. 

SWEET  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong, 
Anil  doubly  swi-et  a  brotlu'rliood  in  song; 
Nor  can  remembrance,  Mathew  !  bring  to  view 
A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 
Than  that  in  which  the  brother  poets  joy'd, 
Who,  with  combined  ixiwers,  their  wit  employ'd 
To  raise  a  trophy  to  tlie  drama's  muses. 
The  thought  of  thi:?  great  partnership  diffuses 
Over  the  genius-loving  heart,  a  feeling 
Of  all  that's  high,  and  great,  anil  good,  and  healing 
Too  partial  friend  I  f;iin  would  I  follow  thee 
Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy ; 
Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 
As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 
*Mong  the  light  skimming  gondolas  far  parted, 
Just  when  the  snn  his  I'arewell  beam  has  darted 
But  'tis  impossible  ;  far  different  cares 
Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  "  Lydian  airs," 
And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall, 
That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 
1  ;<hall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning: 
Or  flush'd  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning  I 
Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream  ; 
()r  a  wrapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam  ; 
Or  again  witness  what  with  tlu-e  I've  seen, 
The  dew  by  fairy  feet  swept  tiom  the  green, 
After  a  night  of  some  (]uaiiit  juiiilee 
Which  every  elf  and  fay  had  come  to  see  : 


286  EPISTLES. 

Wlien  bright  processions  took  their  airy  march 
Beneath  the  curved  moon's  triumphal  arch. 

But  miiiht  I  now  each  passing  moment  give 
To  tlie  coy  Muse,  with  me  she  wouhl  not  live 
In  this  (lark  city,  nor  wouhl  condescend 
'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend, 
should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  be  kind, 
All !  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 
Some  fiowery  spot,  sequester'd,  wild,  romantic, 
That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  frantic ; 
Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Di'uid  knew,  are  growing, 
And  fiowers,  tiie  glory  of  one  day,  are  blowing  ; 
Where  the  daik-leaved  laburnum's  droo|)ing clustem 
Rertect  athwart  tiie  stream  their  yellow  lustres. 
And  intertwined  the  cassia's  arms  unite, 
AVith  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 
Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches  hung, 
'Mong  which  the  nightingales  have  always  sung 
In  leafy  quiet;  where  to  pry,  aloof 
Atween  the  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof, 
Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were  nestling, 
And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was  wrestling 
There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark  and  gloomy, 
To  say  ''Joy  not  too  much  in  all  that's  bloomy  " 

Yet  this  is  vain  —  O  INIathew  !  lend  thy  aid 
To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  the  maid  — 
Where  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on, 
And  sit,  and  rhyme,  and  think  on  Chatterton  ; 
And  that  warm-hearted    Shakspeare  sent  to  meei 

him 
Four  laurell'd  spirits,  heavenward  to  entreat  him 
^V^itli  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  tlie  sages 
Who  iiave  left  streaks  of  liijht  atliwart  their  ages . 
And  thou  shouldst  moralize  on  Milton's  blindness, 
And  mourn  the  fearful  dearth  of  human  kindness 
To  tbos«i  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden  wing 


EPISTLES.  287 

Of  rjeniui*,  to  flap  away  each  stinji 
Tlirown  by  the  pitiless  woilil.     We  next  coulil   t«'l 
or  tiiose  wlio  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell ; 
Ol'  our  own  Allreii,  of  Helvetian  Tell  ; 
Of  him  whose  name  to  c\ayy  heart 's  a  solace, 
Ili'jh-mlnded  and  nnliendinij;  William  AValiace. 
^\'liile  to  the  ru;;;fed  north  our  nmsin;i  turns, 
We  well  mijjht  drop  a  tear  for  him  and  Burns. 
Felton  I  without  incitements  such  as  these, 
How  vain  for  me  the  nii,'jiard  Muse  to  tease  ! 
For  iheo,  she  will   thy  every  dwellinfr  j^race, 
And  make  "  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  :  " 
For  thou  wast  once  a  (low'ret  blooming  wild, 
Close  to  the  source,  brij^ht,  pure,  and  undefiled, 
Whence  push  the  streams  of  song  :  in  happy  hour 
Came  chaste  Diana  from  lier  shady  bower, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprisin"'; 
And,  as  for  him  some  gifl  she  was  devising. 
Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  thee  in  the  stream 
To  meet  her  glorious  brother's  greeting  bcaui. 
I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 
How,  from  a  (lower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 
Apollo  changed  thee:  how  thou  next  didst  seem 
A  black-eyed  swan  upon  the  widening  stream  ; 
And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror  trace 
The  placid  features  of  a  human  face  ; 
That  thou  hast  never  told  thy  travels  strange. 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  mazy  range 
O'er  pebbly  crystal,  anil  o'er  golden  sands  ; 
Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Naiads'  pearly  hands. 

November,  1815. 

*— 

TO  MY   BROTHER  GEORGE. 

FULL  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past. 
My  brain  bewilder'd,  and  my  mind  o'ercast 
With  heaviness ;  in  seasons  when  I've  thought 


288  EPISTLES. 

No  sphery  strains  by  nie  could  e'er  be  caught 
From  the  blue  dome,  thouizli  I  to  dimness  gaze 
On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightniiip;  plays  ; 
Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretcb'd  supinely, 
Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  divinely  : 
That  I  should  never  hear  Apollo's  song, 
Though  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all  along 
The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  streaks  between, 
The  golden  lyre  itself  were  dimly  seen : 
That  the  still  murmur  of  the  honey-bee 
Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me  : 
That  the  bright  glance  Irom  beauty's  eyelids  slanting 
Would  never  make  a  lay  of  mine  enchanting. 
Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardour  to  unfold 
Some  tale  of  love  and  arms  in  time  of  old. 

But  there  are  times,  when  those  that  love  the  bay 
Fly  from  all  sorrowing  far,  far  away ; 
A  sudden  glow  comes  on  them,  nought  they  see 
In  water,  earth,  or  air,  but  poesy. 
It  has  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I  hold  it. 
(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it,) 
That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance, 
In  air  he  sees  white  coursers  paw  and  prance, 
Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel. 
Who  at  each  other  tilt  in  playful  quarrel ; 
And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning  call. 
Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal, 
When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet  clear, 
Whose  tones  reach  nought  on  earth  but  poet's  eai 
When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide. 
And  through  the  light  the  horsemen  swiftly  glide. 
The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls, 
And  view  the  glory  of  their  festivals  : 
Their  ladies  fair,  that  in  the  distance  seem 
Fit  for  the  silvering  of  a  seraph's  dream; 
Their  rich  bi-imm'd  goblets,  that  incessant  run, 
Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the  sun  ; 


F.PIt<TLES.  289 

And  when  upheld,  the  wine  from  each  bright  jar 
Poui-s  with  tlie  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 
Yet  further  off  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers, 
Of  which  no  mortal  eye  can  reach  the  flowers  ; 
Anil  'lis  riglit  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 
'Twould  make  the  Puet  (juarrel  with  the  rose. 
All  tlial's  rcveal'd  from  that  far  seat  of  blisses, 
Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interchanging  kisses, 
As  gracefully  descending,  light  and  ihin, 
Lik(!  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fin, 
When  he  upswimmeth  from  the  coral  caves, 
And  sports  with  half  his  tail  above  the  waves. 

These  wonders  strange  he  sees,  and  many  more, 
Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore  : 
Should  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 
With  foreiiead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare, 
Would  he  nought  see  but  the  dark,  silent  blue, 
With    all    its   diamonds    trembling    through    and 

through  ? 
Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness 
Of  whitest  clouds  she  does  her  beauty  dress. 
And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher, 
Like  a  sweet  nun  in  holiday  attire  'i 
Ah,  yes  I  much  more  would  start  into  his  sight  — 
The  revelries  and  mysteries  of  night : 
And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 
Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement  spell  you. 

These  are  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard: 
But  richer  far  posterity's  award. 
What  does  he  murmur  with  his  latest  breath, 
While   his    ])roud  eye  looks   through    the  film  of 

death  '? 
-   What  though  I  leave  this  dull  and  earthly  mould 
Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 
With  after  times.  —  The  patriot  shall  feel 
My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel ; 

Id 


290  EPISTLES. 

Or  in  the  senate  thnnder  out  my  nurabere, 

To  startle  princes  from  tlieir  easy  slumbers. 

The  saQ;e  will  minj^le  with  each  moral  theme 

Mv  happy  thon<Tlits  sententious  :  he  will  teem 

With  lofty  periods  when  my  verses  fire  him, 

And  then  I'll  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him. 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  deli^^ht 

Tha-t  maids  will  sinn;  them  on  their  bridal-night. 

Gay  villajiers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 

When  tiiey  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs  with  pla 

And  forni'd  a  snowy  circle  on  the  gi-ass, 

And  placed  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 

Who  chosen  is  their  queen,  —  with  her  fine  head 

Crowned  with  flowers  [)urple,  white,  and  red : 

For  there  the  lily  and  the  musk-rose  sighing, 

Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying  : 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full  blown,  and  double. 

Serenely  sleep  :  —  she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book,  —  and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthful  heart,  —  with  stilled  cries, 

And  rul)bing  of  white  hands,  ami  sparkling  eyes 

For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  ho])cs  and  fears ; 

One  that  I  foster'd  in  my  youthful  years  : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glistening  circlet  sleep, 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep, 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  bi-east. 

Be  luU'd  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world  adieu  1 

Thy  dales  and  hills  are  fa<iing  from  my  view : 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide-spreading  pinions. 

Far  from  the  nari'ow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daughters  fair, 

And  warm  thy  sons  ! "     Ah,  my  dear  friend   and 

brother, 
Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother, 
For  tasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 


EPISTLES.  291 

Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 

At  times,  'tis  true,  I've  felt  relief  from  pain 

Wlien  some  brij^lit  lliou;:lit  has  d.irtnl  lliroLgh  my 

brail)  : 
Throufrh  all  lliat  day  I've  felt  a  greater  pleasure 
Than  if  1  had  broujiht  to  lijrlit  a  hidden  treasure. 
As  to  my  sonnets,  tiiouj^li  nciie   else   sliould   heed 

them, 
I  feel  delighted,  still,  that  you  should  read  them. 
Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  ealm  enjoyment, 
Streteli'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best    loved   employ- 
ment 
Of  seribblinji  lines  for  you.     These  tliin'is  I  ihonjjht 
While,  in  my  I'aee,  the  freshest  breeze  1  eaught. 
E'en  now  I  am  pillowM  on  a  bed  of  Mowers 
That  crowns  a  lofty  ellll',  which  ])rotidly  towers 
Above  the  ocean  waves.     The  stalks  and  blades 
Chequer  my  tablet  with  their  (juivL-ring  shades. 
On  one  side  is  a  field  of  (lroo])ing  oats. 
Through  which  the  pop[)ies  show  their  scarlet  coat8. 
So  pert  and  useless,  thai  they  bring  to  mind 
The  scarlet  coats  that  jiester  human-kind. 
And  on  the  other  side,  outspread,  is  seen 
Ocean's    blue   mantle,   streak'd    with    purple    and 

green ; 
Now  'tis  I  see  a  canvas'd  ship,  and  now 
Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her  prow. 
I  see  the  laik  down-drop[)ing  to  his  nest. 
And  the  broad-winir'd  sea-^ull  never  at  rest ; 
For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers  free. 
flis  breast  is  ilancinir  on  the  restless  sea. 
Now  I  direct  my  eyes  into  the  west, 
Which  at  this  moment  is  in  sun-beams  drest  : 
Why  westward  turn  V     'Twas  but  to  say  adieu  ! 
Twas  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  George,  to  you  I 

Auguit,  1810. 


tf2  EPISTLES. 


TO  CHARLES  COW  DEN  CLARKE 

OFT  liave  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning, 
And  with  proud  bi'east  his  own  white  shadow 
ci'owning  ; 
lie  slants  his  neck  beneath  the  waters  bright 
So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 
Come  from  the  galaxy  :  anon  he  sports,  — 
With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr  courts, 
Or  ruflles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 
In  strivinji;  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 
Some  diamond  water-drops,  and  them  to  treasure 
In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  olF  at  leisure. 
But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  ensure  them, 
Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them  ; 
For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would  be  free 
And  drop  like  hours  into  eternity. 
Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time, 
Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme  ; 
With  shattor'd  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvas  rent, 
I  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent ; 
Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers, 
la  which  a  trembling  diamond  never  lingers. 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  full  plainly  864 
Why  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee  : 
Because  my  thougl'ts  were  never  iveo.  and  clear, 
And  little  fit  to  please  a  (;lassic  ear ; 
Because  my  wine  was  of  too  poor  a  savour 
For  one  whoso  palate  gladdens  in  the  flavour 
Of  sparkling  Helicon  :  —  small  good  it  were 
To  take  him  to  a  desert  rude  and  bare, 
Wiio  had  on  Baiae's  shore  reclined  at  ease. 
While  Tasso's  page  was  floating  in  a  bi-eeze 
That  gave  soft  music  from  Armida's  bowers, 
Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her  rarest  dowera.' 


EPISTLES.  291 

Small  pood  to  one  who  had  by  Miilla's  stream 

Fondled  the  maidens  witli  the  breasts  of  cream  ; 

Wiio  hat]  belu'Id  I}el|)hoebe  in  a  brook, 

And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook, 

And  Arehimajio  leaning  o'er  his  book  : 

Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet  tasted,  and  seen,        ' 

From  silvery  ripple,  np  to  beauty's  queen  ; 

From  the  sequester'd  haunts  of  jray  Titania, 

To  the  blue  dwellinjj;  of  divine  Urania: 

One,  who  of  late  had  ta'en  sweet  forest  walks 

With  him  who  elegantly  chats  and  talks  — 

The  wrong'd  Libertas  —  who  has  told  you  stories 

Of  laurel  chaplets,  and  Apollo's  glories  ; 

Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a  city, 

And  tearful  ladies,  made  for  love  and  pity  : 

With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 

Thus  have  I  thought;  and  days  on  days  have  flown 

Slowly,  or  rapidly —  unwilling  still 

For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 

Nor  should  I  now,  but  that  I've  known  you  long; 

That  you  first  taught  me  all  the  sweets  of  song: 

The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free,  the  fine: 

What  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right  divine: 

Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease. 

And  float  along  like  birds  o'er  simuner  seas: 

Miltonian  storms,  and  more,  IMiltonian  tenderness : 

Michael  in  arms,  and   more,  meek  Eve's  fair  sleD 

derness. 
Who  read  for  me  the  sonnet  swelling  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  j)roudly  ? 
Who  (bund  for  me  the  grandeur  of  the  ode, 
Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load  ? 
Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial  dram. 
The  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram  ? 
Show'd  me  that  ejjic  was  of  all  the  king. 
Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all,  like  Saturn's  ring  7 
Yon  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty, 
And  jjointud  out  the  patriot's  stern  duty; 


294  EPISTLES. 

The  mijilit  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of  Tell ; 

Tlie  hand  of  Brutus,  that  so  srandly  fell 

Upon  a  tyrant's  head.     Ah  I  had  I  never  seen. 

Or  known  your  kindness,  what  mi^ht  I  have  been 

What  my  enjoyments  in  my  youthful  years, 

Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears? 

And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forjjet  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt  ? 

No,    doubly    no;  —  yet    should    these     rhymin^s 

please, 
I  shall  roll  on  the  p;rass  with  twofold  ease  ; 
For  I  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feeding 
With  hopes  that   you  would    oue   day    think    the 

I'eading 
Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  misspent ; 
Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content ! 
Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw  the  spirei 
In  lucent  Thames  rejected  :  —  warm  desires 
To  see  the  sun  o'er-peep  the  eastern  dimness,   . 
And  morning-shadows  streaking  into  slimness 
Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water ; 
To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad  and  shorter 
To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills, 
And  sips  its  freshness  from  the  little  rills ; 
To  see  high,  golden  corn  wave  in  the  light 
When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's  night, 
And  peers  among  the  cloudlets,  jet  and  white, 
As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 
Of  bean-i)lossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 
No  sooner  had  I  stepp'd  into  these  ])leasures. 
Than  I  began  to  think  of  rhymi'S  and  measures ; 
The  air  that  floaled  by  me  seem'd  to  say 
"  Write  1   thou  wilt  never  have  a  better  day." 
And  so  T  did.     When  many  lines  I'd  written. 
Though  with  their  grace  I  was  not  oversmitten, 
Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I'd  better 
Trust  lo  my  (i'clings,  and  write  you  a  letter. 
Such  an  attempt  required  an  inspiratiou 


EPIS  TLES.  2»4 

Of  a  peculiar  sort,  —  a  consummation  ;  — 
Which,   had   I    felt,   these    scribblinjjs  might  havo 

been 
Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never  ween ; 
Hut  many  days  have  past  since  last  my  heart 
AVa.-s  warmM  luxuriously  by  divine  Alozart ; 
By  Anie  delighted,  or  by  llandfl  madden'd  ; 
Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierced  and  sadden'd  : 
What  time  you  were  before  the  music  sitting, 
And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 
Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady  lanes 
That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains, 
And  revell'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not. 
When,  at  night-fall,  among  your  books  we  got : 
No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that,  — 
Nor  when  reluctantly  1  took  my  hat; 
No,  nor  till  cordially  you  shook  my  hand 
Mid-way    between    our     homes :  —  your     accents 

bland 
Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 
Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  gravelly  floor. 
Sometimes  l'  lost  them,  and  then  found  again  ; 
You  changed  the  ibot-path  for  the  grassy  plain. 
In  those  still  momenta  I  have  wish'd  ycu  joys 
That  well  you  know  to  honour :  —  "  Life's  very  toys 
With  him,''  said  I,  "  will  take  a  pleasant  charm; 
It  cannot  be  that  aught  will  work  liini  harm." 
These   ihougiits  now  come  o'er  me  with  all   their 

might : — 
Again  I  shake  your  hand,  —  friend  Charles,  good 

night. 

SrpXmier,  1S16 


iO^:;^      i^^#^ 


W4  'J 


:^ 


SONNETS. 


TO    A    FRIEXD    WHO    SENT    ME    SOME    R08E9. 

AS  late  I  rambled  in  the  liappv  (ielils, 
What  time  the  skylark  shakes  the  tremulous 
dew 
From  liis  liisli  clover  covert ;  —  wlici,  anew 
Adventurous  kni;,'lits  take  up  their  dinted  shields; 
I  saw  the  sweetest  (lower  wild  nature  yields, 

A  fresh-blown    musk-rose ;    'twas  the  first  that 

threw 
Its  sweets  upon  the  summer:  pracefid  it  "row 
As  is  the  wand  that  (pieen  Titania  wields. 
And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fragrancv, 

1  thouizlit  the  irarden-ro3e  it  far  exccll'd  ; 
But  when,  O  \\  ells  I  thy  roses  came  to  me, 

My  sense  with  their  deliciousncss  was  spell'd 
Soft  voices  had  Ihey,  that  with  tender  ])lea 

Whisper'd  of  peace,  and  truth,  and  fiiendlloeM 
unquell'd. 


SOO  SONNETS 

II. 

TO    MY    BROTHER    GEORGE. 

MANY  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen  : 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 
That  fiU'd  the   eyes  of  Morn  ;  —  the  laurell'd 
peers 
Who  from  the  feathery  gold  of  evening  lean  ;  — 
The  Ocean  with  its  vastness,  its  blue  green, 

Its  ships,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes,  its  fears,  — 
Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 
Must  think  on  what  will  be.  and  what  has  been. 
E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I  write, 

Cynthia  is  fi'om  her  silken  curtains  ijeepin" 
So  scantly,  that  it  seems  her  bridal  night. 

And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keepinnr. 
But  what,  without  the  social  thought  of  thee. 
Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea  ? 


III. 

TO    


HAD  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs 
Be  echoed  swiftly  through  that  ivory  shell 
Thine  ear,  and  find  thy  gentle  heart ;  so  well 
Would  passion  arm  me  tor  the  enterprise  : 
But  ah  1  I  am  no  knight  whose  foeman  dies; 
No  cuirass  glistens  on  my  bosom's  swell ; 
I  am  no  happy  shepherd  of  the  dell 
Whose  lips  have  trembled  with  a  maiden's  eyes. 
Yet  must  I  doat  upon  thet,,  —  call  Ihee  sweet. 
Sweeter  by  far  than  Hyl)la's  honey'd  roses 
AV^hen  stei;p'd  in  dew  ricli  to  intoxication. 
Ah  I  I  will  taste  that  dew,  for  me  'tis  meet, 
And  when  the  moon  her  pallid  face  discloses, 
I'll  gather  some  by  spells,  and  incantation. 


80Nyj:T8.  301 


IV. 

0  SOLITUDE  '  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 
Let  it  not  be  amonj;  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky   buildings  :  iliiab   with   me    the 
steep,  — 
Nature's  observatory  —  whence  the  dell, 
In  llowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell. 
May  secu)  a  span  ;  let  me  thy  vijjiis  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavilion'd,   where  the  deer's 
swift  leap 
Stantles  (he  wild  bee  from  the  foxglove  bell. 

But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with 
thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind. 
Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined. 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure  ;  and  it  sure  must  be 
Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


HOW  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time  1 
A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 
Of  my  delighted  fancy,  —  I  could  brood 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  : 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme. 

These  will  in  throngs  before  my  mind  intrude: 
But  no  coufusion,  no  disturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion  ;  'tis  a  pleasing  chime. 

So  the  utinumber'd  sounds  that  evening  store; 
The  soiiirs  of  birds —  the  whispering  of  the  leaves  ■ 
The  voice  of  waters  —  the  great  bell  that  heaves 
With  solemn    sound,  —  and    thousand    others 
more, 
That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves. 
Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


J05i  SONNETS. 

VI. 
TO  O.  A.  W. 

NYMPH  of  the  downward  smile   and  sidelong 
jjlanee ! 
Ill  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 

Art  thou  most  lovely  ?  when  gone  far  astray 
Into  the  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance  ? 
Or  when  serenely  wanderinc  in  a  trance 

Of  sober  tliougiit  ?     Oi^when  starting  away, 

With  careless  robe  to  meet  the  morning  ray, 
Thou  sparest  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance  ? 
Ha})ly  'tis  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly, 

And  so  remain,  because  tiiou  listenest: 
But  thoii  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 

Tliat  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best, 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  (irace  more  neatlj 

Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 

VII. 

WRITTEN    OS   THE    DAY    THAT    MR.  LEIGH   HUNT 
LEFT  riUSOX. 

WHAT  though,   for  showing  truth  to  flattcr'd 
state, 
Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he, 

In  his  inmiortal  spirit,  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark,  and  as  elate. 
Minion  of  grandeur  I  think  you  he  did  wnit? 

Thiidc  you  he  nought  but  prison-walls  did  see, 

Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  nnturn'dst  the  key  ? 
Ah,  no  !  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate  I 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  stray 'd,  and  bowers  fair, 

Culling  enclianted  (lowers;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  ^lilton  through  the  fields  of  air: 

To  regions  of  his  own  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.      Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew  'I 


80A\/:rs.  j(y3 

nil. 

TO  MY  BKOTUEK. 

SMALL,  busy  flames  play  through  (he  fresh  Ia-(i 
_  coals, 

And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  .silence  creep 
Like  whispers  of  tlie  houselioltl  gods  that  kei-p 
A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  lor  rhymes,  I  search  arounc!  the  poles. 
Your  eyes  are  (ix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep, 
Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep, 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  oiir  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birth-day,  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  (piietiy  : 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  whispering  "noise 

May  we  together  pass,  and  cahnly  try 
What  are  this   world's  true  joys,  —  ere  the  great 
Voice 
From  its  fair  face  shall  bid  our  spirits  fly. 

IX. 

ADDRESSED   TO    nA-iT>ON. 

HIGri-MIXDEDXESS.  a  jealousy  for  good, 
A  loving-kindness  for  the  great  man's^fame, 
Dwells  liere  ami  there  wiih  people  of  no  name, 
In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood  : 
And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  understood, 
Oft  may  be  found  a  "singleness  of  aim," 
That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shame 
\  money-niongering,  j)itiable  brood. 
How  glorious  this  alfcction  for  the  cause 
Of  steadfast  genius,  toiling  gallantly  ! 
What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion  awe« 

Envy,  and  malice  to  their  native  sty  ? 
(Jnniniil)i-r"d  souls  breatlie  out  a  still  applause, 
Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  country's  eye. 


S04  SONNETS. 

X. 
ADDRESSED    TO    THE   SAME. 

GREAT  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning; 
He  of  tiie  cloLul,  (he  cataract,  tlie  lake, 
Who  on  Ilelvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Arcliatigel's  wing : 
He  of  tlie  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 
The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake 
And  lo  I  whose  steadfastness  would  never  take 
A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 
And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come ; 
These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart, 
And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 

Of  mighty  workings  '? 

Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 

XI. 

ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN'S    HOMES 

1  TUCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
XfJ.  ^^'^^^  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen 

Round  many  western  islands  have  i  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-bi'ow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 
Then  felt  1  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
I>ook'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 

{silent,  u])on  a  peak  io  Darien, 


^■^ 


--4 


W 


V'l 


M 


SONNETS  305 


XII. 


ON    LEA.VING    SOME    FKIENDS    AT    AN    EARLT 
HOUR. 

GIVE  me  a  <:ol(len  pen,  and  let  nie  lean 
On  lieap'd-up  flowers,  in  refjjions  elear,  and  far; 
Bring  me  a  tablet  winter  tlian  a  star, 
Or  hand  of  hymiiinir  angel,  wl)en  'tis  seen 
The  silver  strings  of  heavenly  luirj)  atween : 
And  let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly  car, 
Pink  robes,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond  jar, 
And  half-disfover'd  wings,  and  glances  keen. 
The  while  let  music  wandt;r  round  my  ears. 
And  as  it  reaches  each  dcslicious  ending, 

Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious  tone, 
And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres: 
For  what  a  heiglit  my  spirit  is  contending  i 
'Tis  not  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 


XIII. 

\7  EEN  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and  thert 
J[\^   Among  the  bushes,  half  leafless  and  dry ; 

The  stars  look  very  cold  alxnit  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  toot  to  liire ; 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air, 

Or  of  the  de.id  leaves  rustling  dri-arily, 

Or  of"  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  high, 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  [)leasant  lair . 
For  I  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found  ; 
Of  fair-Iiair'd  Milton's  elo(pient  distress, 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid'  drown'd 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress, 

And  faitliful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 
20 


SOS  BONNETS. 


XIV. 

TO  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  lair 
And  open  face  of  heaven,  —  to  breathe  a  prayei 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatijiued  he  sinks  into  some  ]ileasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  "entle  tale  of  love  and  lanrjuishment  ? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel,  —  an  eye 
Watcliing  the  sailing  cloudlet's  briglit  career. 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by  ; 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


XV. 

ON  THE   GRA8SII0PPEK   AND   CRICKET. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead: 
That  Is  the  grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun. 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  strills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 


sosy/cra.  jo^ 

XVI. 

TO   KOSCIUSKO. 

(^  OOD  Kosciusko  !  tliy  greaf  name  alone 
Jl"   Is  a  full  liarvust  wIkmich  (o  roa[)  liljj;!i  fpelini' 
It  comes  upon  us  like  the  jilorious  jjealiii'" 
Of  the  wide  spheres — an  everlastin"  tone. 
Anil  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  workls  unknown, 
The  nanifsof  heroes,  burst  fromrloudseonceailu", 
Are  ehaniied  to  harmonies,  for  everstealin" 
Tiiro'igh    cloudless    blue,  and    round    each   silvei 

throne. 
It  tells  nie  too,  that  on  a  liappy  day, 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the  earth, 
Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore, 
Gently  commingling,  gives  tremendous  birth 
To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds  far,  far  away 
To  where  the  great  God  lives  lor  evermore. 


XVII. 

HAPPY  is  England  !  I  could  be  content 
To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own  ; 
To  feel  no  otiier  breezes  than  are  blown 
Tliro;igh  its  tall  woods  with  high  lomances  blent 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  i;roan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  woildling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters ; 

Enough  their  simjjle  loveliness  for  me, 
Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging: 

Yet  do  I  often  warmly  bm-n  to  see 
Beauties  ofdecper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing, 
And  float  with  theui  about  the  summer  waters. 


son  SONNETS. 

XVIII. 

TnK    HUMAN   SEASONS. 

FOUR  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year; 
There  are  ibiir  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man: 
lie  has  his  histj'  Sprinpr,  when  ftincy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 
He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  love* 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

lie  furlelh  close  ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness  —  to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  tiireshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 


XIX. 

ON   A   PICTURE   OF   LEANDEK. 

(^OME  hither,  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
J  Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd  light, 
Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white,  , 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 

Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright, 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night, 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea : 
Tis  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death  ; 

Kigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weary  lips 
For  llero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against  her  smile. 

0  horrid  dream  !  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy  ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam  awhile : 
He's  gone ;  up  bubbles  all  his  amorous  breath  I 


SONNETIS.  30* 

XX. 

TO    AIL8A    ROCK. 

HEARKEN,  thou  crapjjy  ocean  pyramid! 
Give  answer  from  tliy   voice,   the  sea-fowl'a 
screams  I 
When    were    thy   shoulders    mantled    in     huge 
streams ! 
When,  from  the  sun,  was  thy  broad  foreliead  hid  ? 
How  Ions  is't  since  the  !niirlity  power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom  dreams  V 
Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sun-beams, 
Or  when  "jray  clouds  are  thy  cold  cover-lid  ? 
Thou  answer's!  not,  for  thou  art  dead  asleep  ! 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities  — 
The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep  ; 

First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eajrle-skies  — 
Drown'd  wast  thou  till  an  earthcjuako  made  thea 
steep, 
Another  cannot  wake  thy  giant  size. 

XXI. 

ON    SEEING    THE    ELGIN    MAKBLE8. 

MY  spirit  is  too  weak  ;  mortality 
\Veij;lis  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling  sleep 
And  each  imaj;ined  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  podlike  hardship  tells  nie  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 
Yet  'lis  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep. 
That  I  have  not  the  cloudy  winds  to  keep 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  tiic  morning's  eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain. 

Bring  round  the  heart  an  indescribable  feud: 
So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain, 

That  mingles  (Jrecian  grandeur  with  the  rudii 
Wasting  of  old  Time  —  with  a  billowy  main 
A  8UU,  a  shadow  of  a  ma^initude 


-U 


810  SONNETS. 

XXII. 

TO  HAYDON. 

(WITH  THE  PEECEDDJO   SONNET.) 

HAYDON!  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  speak 
Definitively  of  these  mighty  things  ; 
Forgive  me,  that  I  have  not  eagle's  wings, 
That  what  I  want  1  know  not  where  to  seek. 
And  think  that  I  would  not  be  over-meek, 
In  rolling  ont  upfollowcJ  thunderinjis, 
Even  to  the  steep  of  Heliconian  springs, 
Were  I  of  ample  strength  for  such  a  freak. 
Think,  too,  that  all  these  numbers  should  be  thine 
Whose  elseV     In  this  who  touch   thy  vesture' 
hem  ? 
For,  when  mew  stared  at  what  was  most  divine 
With  brainless  idiotism  and  o'erwise  phlegm, 
Thou  hadst  beheld  the  full  Hesperian  shine 

Of  their  star  in  the  east,  and  gone  to  worship 
tliem ! 

XXIII. 

WRITTEX    IN  THE    COTTAGE  WnERE    BURNS  WAS 
BO  UN. 

n^HIS  mortal  body  of  a  thousand  days 
_l_    Now  fills,  0  Burns,  a  space  in  thine  own  room, 
Where  thou  didst  dream  alone  on  budded  bays, 

Hap[)y  and  thoughtless  of  thy  day  of  doom! 
My  pul^e  is  warm  with  thine  old  Barley-bree, 

My  head  is  light  with  pledging  a  great  souJ- 
My  eyes  are  wandering,  and  1  catinot  see, 

Fancy  is  dead  and  drunken  at  its  goal; 
Yet  can  I  stamp  my  foot  upon  thy  lloor, 

Yet  can  1  ope  thy  window-sash  to  fnid 
The  meadow  thou  hast  tramped  o'er  ami  o'er  — 

^et  can  I  think  of  thee  till  thought  is  blind,  — 
Yet  can  I  gulp  a  bumper  totliy  name,  — 
0  smile  among  the  shades,  for  this  is  fame  1 


aoyxrrs,  an 

XXIV. 

TO    THE   NILR. 

SON  of  the  old  moon-mountains  African  I 
Stream  of  the  Pyramid  and  Crocodile  ! 
We  call  thee  fruitful,  and  that  very  while 
A  desert  (ills  our  seeinjji's  inward  span  : 
Nurse  of  swart  nations  since  the  world  befjan, 
Art  thou  so  fruitful  ?  or  dost  thou  beguile 
Those  men  to  honour  thee,  who,  worn  with  toil. 
Rest  them  a  space  'twixt  Cairo  and  Decan  ? 
O  may  dark  fancies  err  !     They  surely  do  ; 
'Tis  ijjnorance  that  makes  a  barren  waste 
Of  all  beyond  itself.     Thou  dost  bedew 

Green  rushes  like  our  rivers,  and  dost  taste 
The  pleasant  sun-rise.     Green  isles  hast  thou  too. 
And  to  tlie  sea  as  happily  dost  baste. 

XXV. 

ox  SITTING  DOWN  TO  READ  "  KINO  LEAR  "  ONCB 
AGAIN. 

OGOLDEN-TONGUED  Romance  with  serene 
lute! 
Fair  plumed  Syren  !  Queen  I  if  far  away  I 

Leave  melodizing  on  this  wintry  day, 
Shut  up  thine  olden  volume,  and  be  mute. 
Adieu  !  for  once  again  the  fierce  dispute, 

l?etwixt  hell  torment  and  impassioned  clay, 

Must  I  burn  throu;j;h;  once  more  assay 
The  bitter  sweet  of  this  Slmkspcarian  fruit 
Chief  Poet  1  and  ye  clouds  of  Albion, 

Begetters  of  our  deep  eternal  theme, 
AVhen  I  am  through  the  old  oak  i'orest  gone, 

Let  me  not  wander  in  a  barren  dream. 
But  when  I  am  consumed  with  the  Fire, 
Give  me  new  PhcEnix-wings  to  fly  at  my  desire. 


312  BONNETS. 


XXVI. 


1)  EAD  me  a  lesson,  Muse,  and  speak  it  loud 
\j   Upon  the  top  of  Nevis,  blind  in  mist ! 

I  look  into  the  chasms,  and  a  shroud 
Vaporous  doth  hide  them,  — just  so  much  I  wial 
Mankind  do  know  of  hell ;  I  look  o'erhead, 

And  there  is  sullen  mist,  —  even  so  much 
Mankind  can  tell  of  heaven  ;  mist  is  spread 

-  Before  the  earth,  beneath  me,  —  even  such, 
Even  so  vague  is  man's  si<i;ht  of  himself! 

Here  are  the  cragay  stones  beneath  my  feet,  — 
Thus  much  I  kn^iw  that,  a  poor  witless  elf, 

1  tread  on  them,  —  that  all  my  eye  doth  meet 
Is  mist  and  craa,  not  only  on  this  height, 
But  in  the  world  of  thought  and  mental  miaht  1 


-^'^'-^ 


POSTIIUlilOUS   rOEMS 


FIXGAL'S  CAVE. 

NOT  Aladdin  majrian 
Ever  sucli  a  work  began  ; 
Not  the  wizard  of  tlie  Dee 
Ever  such  a  dre;in\  i-ould  see  ; 
Not  St.  Jolin,  in  ratnios'  isle, 
In  the  passion  of  his  toil, 
When  lie  saw  tiie  churches  seven, 
Golden  aisled,  built  up  in  heaven, 
Gazed  at  such  a  rugged  wonder  I  — 
As  I  stood  its  roofing  under, 
Lo  !  1  saw  one  sleej)ing  there, 
On  the  marble  cold  and  bare ; 
While  the  surges  washed  his  feet, 
And  his  garments  white  did  beat, 
Drencheil  about  the  sombre  rocks; 
On  his  neck  his  well-grown  locks, 
Lifted  dry  above  the  main. 
Were  upon  the  curl  again. 
"  AVhat  is  this  ?  awd  what  art  thou  ?"■ 
Whispered  I,  and  touch'd  his  brow; 
"What  art  thou  ?  and  what  is  thisV" 
Whispered  I,  and  strove  to  kiss 
The  spirit's  hand,  to  wake  his  eyes; 
Up  he  started  in  a  trice  : 
"  1  am  Lycidas,"  said  he, 
"  FamM  in  fnu'i-al  minstrelsy  I 
This  was  ai'i-hitcclnr'd  thus 
By  the  great  Oceanus  !  — 
Here  his  mighty  waters  play 
Hollow  organs  all  the  day; 


816  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Here,  by  turns,  his  dolphins  al', 
Finny  palmers,  great  and  small, 
Come  to  pay  devotion  due,  — 
Each  a  mouth  of  pearls  must  strew  1 
Many  a  mortal  of  these  days 
Dares  to  pass  our  sacred  ways ; 
Dares  to  touch,  audaciously, 
This  cathedral  of  the  sea ! 
I  have  been  the  ponlifl'-priest. 
Where  the  waters  never  rest, 
Where  a  fledgy  sea-bird  choir 
Soars  for  ever  !     Holy  fire 
I  have  hid  from  mortal  man ; 
Proteus  is  my  Sacristan  ! 
But  the  dulled  eye  of  mortal 
Hath  passed  beyond  the  rocky  portal ; 
So  for  ever  will  I  leave 
Such  a  taint,  and  soon  unweave 
Ail  the  magic  of  the  place." 
So  saying,  with  a  Spirit's  glance 
He  dived  1 


TO 


WHAT  can  I  do  to  drive  away 
llemembrance  from  my  eyes  ?  for  they  bav« 
seen, 
Aye,  an  hour  ago,  my  brilliant  Queen  I 
Touch  has  a  memory.     O  say,  love,  say. 
What  can  I  do  to  kill  it  and  be  free 
In  my  old  liberty  V 

When  every  fair  one  that  I  saw  was  fair, 
Enough  to  catch  me  in  but  half  a  snare, 
Not  keep  me  th»'re  : 

When,  howe'er  ])oor  or  particolour'd  things, 
My  muse  had  wings, 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  317 

And  ever  ready  was  to  take  her  course 
Wliitlier  I  bent  Iier  ibroe, 
Uuiiitellecfual,  yet  divine  to  me  ;  — 
Divine,  I  say  !  —  Wliat  sea-bird  o'er  the  sea 
Is  a  pliilosoplier  tlic  wliile  lio  goes 
Winging  along  where  the  great  water  throes  ? 

How  shall  I  do 

To  get  anew 

Tiiose  moulted  feathers,  and  so  mount  once  more 

Above,  above 

The  reach  of  fluttering  Love, 

And  make  him  cower  lowly  while  I  soar? 

Shall  I  gulp  wine  '?     No,  that  is  vulgarism, 

A  heresy  and  schism. 

Foisted  into  the  canon  law  of  love  ;  — 

No,  -;-  wine  is  only  sweet  to  happy  men ; 

More  dismal  cares 

Seize  on  me  unawares,  — 

Where  shall  I  learn  to  get  my  peace  again  ? 

To  banish  thoughts  of  that  most  hateful  land, 

Dungeoner  of  my  friends,  tiiat  wicked  strand 

Where  they  were  wreck'd  and  live  a  wrecked  life 

That  monstrous  region,  whose  dull  rivers  pour. 

Ever  from  their  sordid  urns  unto  the  shore, 

Unown'd  of  any  weedy-haired  gods  ; 

^Vhose  winds,  all  zephyrless,  hold  scourging  rods, 

Iced  in  the  great  lakes,  to  afflict  mankind  ; 

Whose    rank-grown    forests,    fiosted,    black,    and 

blind, 
Would    friglit    a    Dryad :     whose    harsh   herbaged 

meads 
Make  lean  and  lank  the  starv'd  ox  while  he  feeds  ; 
There  bad  llowers   have   no  scent,  birds  no   sweet 

song. 
And  great  unerring  Nature  once  seems  wrong. 

O,  for  some  sunny  sjiell 

To  dissipate  the  shadows  of  this  hell  I 


818  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

Say  they  are  jrone,  —  with  the  new  dawning  light 

Steps  forth  my  lady  bright  1 

O,  let  me  once  more  lest 

My  soul  uj)on  that  dazzling  breast ! 

Let  onee  again  tiiese  aching  arms  be  placed, 

Tlie  tender  gaolers  of  thy  waist  I 

And  let  me  feel  that  warm  breath  here  and  there 

To  spread  a  rapture  in  my  very  hair,  — 

(),  the  sweetness  of  the  pain  ! 

Gi\  8  me  those  lijis  again  ! 

Epi  ragh  !  Enough  !  it  is  enough  for  me 

To  dream  of  thee  ! 


HYMN  TO  APOLLO. 

GOD  of  the  golden  bow, 
And  of  the  goldei»  lyre, 
And  of  the  golden  hair, 
And  of  the  golden  lire, 
Charioteer 
Of  the  patient  year, 
"Where  —  where  slept  thine  ire. 
When  like  a  blank  idiot  I  put  on  thy  wreath. 
Thy  laurel,  thy  glory, 
The  light  of  thy  story. 
Or  was  1  a  worm  —  too  low  crawlin<T,  for  death  i 
O  Delphic  Apollo ! 

The  Thiniderer  grasp'd  and  grasp'd. 

The  Thunderer  frown'd  and  frown'd  ; 
The  eagle's  feathery  mane 

For  wrath  became  stiilenM  —  the  sound 
Of  breeding  thunder 
AVent  drowsily  under, 
Muttering  to  be  unbound. 
O  why  didst  thou  pity,  and  for  a  worm 
Why  touch  thy  soft  lute 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  81 » 

Till  tlio  tliuTi'lcr  was  mute, 
Why  was  not  I  cnisliM  —  sncli  a  pitiful  g^rm? 
O  Dolphic  Apollo  ! 

The  Pk'iados  were  up, 

Watflrmi^r  the  silL-nt  air; 
The  seeds  and  roofs  in  the  Earth 
Were  swelling  for  snnimer  fare  ; 
'I'lie  Ocean,  its  neighbour, 
AVas  at  lis  oKl  lal)our, 
AVhen,  wlio  —  who  did  dare 
To  tic,  like  a  madman,  thy  plant  ronnd  his  brow, 
And  urin  and  look  proudly. 
And  blaspheme  so  loudly, 
And  live  for  tint  honour,  to  stoop  to  thee  now  ? 
O  Djlpliic  Apollo  1 


LINES. 


F 


''XFELT,  unheard,  unseen, 
I've  left  my  little  queen. 
Her  languid  arms  in  silver  slumber  ly- 
ing : 

Ah  1  throngli  their  nestling  touch, 
Who  —  who  could  tell  iiow  much 
There  io  for  madness —  cruel,  or  complying? 

Tliose  faery  lids  how  sleek  ! 

Those  lips  how  moist  I  —  they  speak, 
111  ripest  quiet,  shadows  of  sweet  sounds; 

Into  my  fancy's  ear 

Melting  a  burden  dear, 
IIow  "  Love  doth  know  no  fulness,  and  no  bounds' 

True  !  —  t«;ndt*r  mrmitors  I 
I  bend  unto  your  laTTs : 


820  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

This  sweetest  day  for  dalliance  was  bom  \ 
So,  without  more  ado, 
I'll  feel  my  heaven  anew, 

For  all  the  blushing  of  the  hasty  morn. 

1817. 


SONG. 


HUSH,  liush  !  tread  softly  !  hush,  hush,  my  dear  I 
All  tlie  house  is  asleep,  but  we  know  very  well 
That  the  jealous,  the  jealous  old  bald-pate  may 
hear, 
Tho'  you've   padded   his   night-cap  —  O  sweet 
Isabel  ! 
Tho'  your  feet   are  more   light  than  a  Faery's 

feet. 
Who  dances  on  bubbles  where  brooklets  meet, — 
Hush,  hush  I  soft  tiptoe  !  hush,  hush,  my  dear  I 
For  less  than  a  nothing  the  jealous  can  hear. 


II. 

No  leaf  doth  tremble,  no  ripple  is  there 

On  the  river,  —  all's  still,  and  the  night's  sleepy  ey« 
Closes  up,  and  forgets  all  its  Lethean  care, 

Charm'd  to  death  by  the  drone  of  the  humming 
:May-(ly  ; 
And  the  moon,  whether  prudisli  or  complaisant 
Has  fled  to  her  bower,  well  knowing  I  want 
No  light  in  the  dusk,  no  torch  in  the  gloom. 
But  my  Isabel's  eyes,  and  her  lips  pulp'd  with  bloom 

III. 

Lift  the  latch  !  ah  gently  !  ah  tenderly  — sweet  I 
We  are  dead  if  that  latchet  gives  one  little  clink 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  92\ 

Well  done  —  now  those  lips,  and  a  flowery  seat  — 
The   old   man  may  sleep,  and   the  planets  may 
wink ; 
The  shut  rose  shall  dream  of  our  loves  and 

awake 
Full-blown,  and  such  warmth  for  the  morning 
take, 
The  stock-dove  shall  hatch  his  soft  twin-efrgs  and  coo, 
While  I  kiss  to  the  melody,  aching  all  through  ! 

1818. 


FAERY  SONG. 

SHED  no  tear  !    O  shed  no  tear ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more  1     O  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  cora 
Dry  your  eyes  I     O  dry  your  eyes  ! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies  — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  I  look  overhead  1 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red  — 
Look  up,  look  up.     I  flutter  now 
On  this  fresh  pomegranate  bough. 
See  me  I  'tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear  I  O  shed  no  tear  1 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year 
Adieu,  Adieu  —  I  fly,  adieu, 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue  — 

Adieu,  Adieu! 


21 


■PA'^^  poaTBUMOua  poemb. 

LA   BELLE   DARIE   SANS  MERCl. 

A   BALLAD. 


OWHAT  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lak« 
And  no  birds  sing. 

II. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knigh^at-a^m9 1 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squfrrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest  'a  done. 

III. 

1  see  Ji  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

IV. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads. 

Full  beautiful  —  a  faery's  child. 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zonft 

She  look'd  at  me  as  slie  did  love, 
And  madi'  sweet  moan. 


POSTHUMOUS  POdJkfH.  SM 


VI. 

I  Bet  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  lonpr, 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery  song. 

VII. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said- 
"  I  love  thee  true." 


vin. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyei 

With  kisses  four. 


And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd  —  Ah  I  woe  betide ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all , 

They  cried  —  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Mord 
llath  thee  in  thrall  1 " 


XI. 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 


824  POSTHUMOUS  POEMa. 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  hero, 
Ou  the  cold  hill's  side. 


XII. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loiterin;;, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

1819 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK. 

(UNFIXISnED.) 

UPON  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell ; 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell, 
That  call'd  the  folk  to  evening  prayer 
The  city  streets  were  clean  and  fair 
From  wholesome  drench  of  April  rains, 
And,  on  the  western  window-panes, 
The  chilly  sunset  faintly  told 
Of  unmatured  green,  valleys  cold. 
Of  tiie  green  thorny  blooiuloss  hedge, 
Of  rivers  new  witii  spring-tide  sedge, 
Of  jirimroses  by  sheiter'd  rills, 
And  daisies  on  the  aguish  hills. 

Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell : 
The  silent  streets  were  crowded  well 
With  staid  and  |)ions  companies, 
Warm  from  tiieir  iireside  orat'ries ; 
And  moving,  witli  demurest  air. 
To  even-song,  and  vesper  prayer. 
Each  archetl  i)orch,  and  entry  low, 
Was  fill'd  with  patient  Iblk  and  slow, 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  :^25 

With  wliispcrs  pusli,  and  sliuflliii;;,'  feet, 
While  j)hiy'il  the  or'^xn  loud  and  sweet. 

The  bells  had  ceased,  the  prayers  begun, 
And  Bertha  bad  not  3  et  liaif  done 
A  curious  volume,  jjatch'd  and  torn, 
Tliat  all  day  Ion;:,  from  earliest  morn, 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  ayn!-; 
An>oiiir  its  <jol(len  broideries  ; 
Perpiex'd  her  with  a  tliousand  things,  — 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings, 
Martyrs  in  a  fiery  blaze. 
Azure  saints  and  silver  rays, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaven, 
The  winged  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 
And  the  Covenantal  Ark, 
^Vith  its  many  mysteries, 
Cherubim  and  <j;oldea  mice 


o 


Bertha  was  a  maiden  fair, 
Dwelling  in  th'  old  Minster-square  ; 
From  her  fireside  she  could  see. 
Sidelong,  its  lich  antiiiuity. 
Far  as  the  Bishop's  garden-wall ; 
Where  sy(;amores  and  elm-trees  tall, 
Full-leaved,  the  forest  had  outstript, 
By  no  sharp  north-wind  ever  nipt. 
So  shelter'd  by  the  mighty  pile. 
Bertha  arose,  and  read  awhile, 
With  forehead  'gainst  the  window-pane 
Again  she  tried,  and  then  curain. 
Until  the  dusk  eve  left  her  dark 
Upon  the  legend  of  St.  Mark. 
From  plaiteil  lawn-frill,  fine  and  thin, 
She  lifted  up  her  Mift  warm  chin, 
With  aching  ne,  k  and  swinnning  eycB 
And  dazed  with  saintly  Imag'ries. 


326  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

All  was  gljom,  and  silent  all, 
Save  now  and  then  the  still  foot-fall 
Of  one  returning  homewards  late, 
Past  the  echoing  minster-gate. 
The  clamorous  daws,  that  all  the  day 
Above  tree-tops  and  towers  play, 
Pair  by  pair  had  gone  to  rest, 
Each  in  its  ancient  belfry-nest, 
Where  asleep  they  fall  betimes, 
To  music  and  the  drowsy  chimes. 

All  was  silent,  all  was  gloom. 

Abroad  and  in  the  homely  room : 

Down  she  sat,  poor  cheated  soul ! 

And  struck  a  lamp  from  tlie  dismal  coal ; 

Leaned  forward,  with  bright  drooping  haif 

And  slant  book,  full  against  the  glare. 

Her  shadow,  in  uneasy  guise, 

Hover'd  about,  a  giant  size. 

On  ceiling-beam  and  old  oak  chair. 

The  parrot's  cage,  and  panel  square ; 

And  the  warm  angled  winter-screen, 

On  which  were  many  monsters  seen, 

Call'd  doves  of  Siara,  Lima  mice, 

And  legless  birds  of  Paradise, 

Macaw,  and  tender  Av'davat, 

And  silken-furr'd  Angora  cat. 

Untired  she  read,  her  shadow  still 

Glower'd  about,  as  it  would  fill 

The  room  witii  wildest  forms  and  shades. 

As  though  some  ghostly  queen  of  spades 

Uad  come  to  mock  behind  her  back, 

And  dance,  and  ruffle  her  garments  black. 

Untired  she  read  the  legend  page, 

Of  holy  Mark,  fi'om  youth  to  age, 

On  land,  oti  sea,  in  pagan  chains, 

Rejoicing  for  his  many  pains. 

Sometimes  the  learned  eremite, 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  32T 

With  jrolden  star,  or  dajjeier  briKht, 
Refi'rr'J  to  pious  poesies 
Written  in  smallest  crow-quill  size 
Beneath  the  text ;  and  thus  the  rhyme 
Was  parceU'd  out  from  time  to  time  : 

*'Als  writitli  he  of  sweveiiis, 

Men  han  beforne  tliey  wake  in  bliss, 

Whanne  that  hir  friendes  thinke  him  bound 

In  crinijted  siiroude  farre  under  grounde  ; 

And  how  a  litling  child  mote  be 

A  saint  er  it3  nativitie, 

Gif  that  the  modre  (God  her  blesse  I) 

Kepen  in  solitarinesse, 

And  kisscn  devoute  the  holy  croce, 

Of  Goddes  love,  and  Sathan'a  force,  — 

He  writitli;  and  thiiiges  many  mo 

Of  swiclie  thiiiges  I  may  not  shew. 

Bot  I  must  tellen  verilie 

Somdel  of  Sainte  Cicilie, 

And  cliieflie  what  he  auctorethe 

Of  Saintfe  Markis  life  and  dethe  :  " 

At  length  her  constant  eyelids  come 
Upon  the  fervent  martyrdom; 
Then  lastly  to  his  holy  shrine. 
Exalt  amid  the  tapei-s'  shine 
At  Venice,  — 

1819. 

•— 


TO  FANNY. 

1)HYSICIAN  Nature  !  let  my  spirit  blood  ! 
O  ease  my  heart  of  verse  and  let  me  rest ; 
Throw  me  upon  thy  Tripod,  till  the  flood 
Of  stifling  numbers  ebbs  from  my  full  breast. 
A  theme  !  a  theme  1     Great  Nature  !  aive  a  theme 


328  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

Let  me  begin  my  dream. 
I  come  —  I  see  thee,  as  thou  stand  est  there  \ 
Beckon  me  not  into  the  wintry  air. 

Ah  !  dearest  love,  sweet  home  of  all  my  fears, 
And  hopes,  and  joys,  and  panting  miseries,  — 
To-night,  if  I  may  guess,  thy  beauty  wears 

A  smile  of  such  delight. 

As  brilliant  and  as  bright, 
As  when  with  ravished,  aching,  vassal  eyes, 

Lost  in  soft  amaze, 

1  gaze, I  gaze ! 

Who  now,  with  greedy  looks,  eats  up  my  feast  ? 
What  stare  outfaces  now  my  silver  moon  ! 
Ah  I  keep  that  hand  unravished  at  the  least; 

Let,  let  the  amorous  burn  — 

But,  pr'ythee,  do  not  turn 
The  current  of  your  heart  from  me  so  soon. 

O  !  save,  in  charity. 

The  quickest  pulse  for  me. 

Save  it  for  me,  sweet  love  !  though  music  breathe 
Voluptuous  visions  into  the  warm  air. 
Though  swimminjj  through  the  dance's  dangerous 
wreath ; 

Be  like  an  April  day, 

Smiling  and  cold  and  gay, 
A  temperate  lily,  temperate  as  fair; 

Then,  Heaven  !  there  will  be 

A  warmer  June  for  me. 

Why,  this  —  you'll  say,  my  Fanny  !  is  not  true  : 
Put  your  soft  liand  upon  your  snowy  side, 
Where    the    heart    beats :  confess  —  'tis   nothing 
new  — 

Must  not  a  woman  be 

A  feather  on  the  sea, 


posrnuMOUs  poems.  3 as 

Sway'd  to  and  fro  by  every  wind  and  tide  ? 
Of  as  uncertain  speed 
As  blow-ball  from  the  mead  ? 

I  know  it  —  and  to  know  it  is  despair 

To  one  wli3  lovt's  you  as  I  love,  sweet  Fanny  1 

Whose  heart  jzoes  illutt'ring  for  you  every  where, 

Nor,  when  away  you  roam, 

Dare  keep  its  wretched  home, 
Love,  love  alone,  his  i)ains  severe  and  many  • 

Then,  loveliest  !  keei)  me  free, 

From  torturing  jealousy. 

Ah  !  if  you  prize  my  subdued  soul  above 
The  poor,  the  fading,  l)rief,  pride  of  an  hour; 
Let  none  profane  my  Holy  See  of  love, 

Or  with  a  rude  hand  break 

The  sacramental  cake  : 
Let  none  else  touch  the  just  new-budded  flower; 

If  not  —  may  my  eyes  close. 

Love !  on  their  lost  repose. 


'^- 


SONNETS. 


I. 

OH  !  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve, 
Wlien  streams  of  light  pour  down  the  golden 
west, 
And  on  the  balmy  zephyrs  tranquil  rest 

The  silver  clouds,  —  far,  tar  away  to  leave 

All  meaner  thoughts,  and  take  a  sweet  reprieve 
From  little  cares  ;  to  find,  with  easy  quest, 
A  fragrant  wild,  with  Nature's  beauty  drest, 

And  there  into  delight  my  soul  deceive. 

There  warm  my  breast  with  patriotic  lore, 

Musing  on  Milton's  fate  —  on  Sydney'sbier  — 
Till  their  stern  forms  before  my  mind  arise: 

Perhaps  on  wing  of  Poesy  upsoar, 
Full  often  dropping  a  delicious  tear. 
When  some  melodious  sorrow  spells  mine  eye» 

1816. 


POSTTIUMOVS  POEMS  S31 

II. 

ro    A    YOUNG    LADY   WHO    8EXT    ME   A    LAtTRKL 
CHOWN. 

FRESH  mornin.!;  pusts  have  blown  away  all  fear 
From  my  s'ad  bosom  —  now  Ironi  j^loominess 
1  iiiouiit  forever —  not  an  atom  less 
Than  the  proud  laurel  shall  (.'ontent  my  bier. 
No  !  by  tlie  eternal  stai*  !  or  why  sit  here 

In  the  Sun's  eye,  and  'gainst  my  temples  press 
Apollo's  very  leaves,  woven  to  bless 
By  thy  wliitt;  fingers  and  thy  spirit  clear. 
Lo  !  who  dares  say,  "  Do  this?  "     Who  dares  call 
down 
Mv    will    from    its    high   purpose?       Who   say, 
'•  Stand," 
Or  "  (io?  "     This  mighty  moment  I  would  frown 

On  abject  CiBsars  —  not  the  stoutest  band 
Of  mailed  heroes  should  tear  oil"  my  f.rown  : 
Yet  would  I  kneel  and  kiss  thy  gentle  hand  I 

III. 

AFTER  dark  vapors  have  opprese'd  our  plains 
For  a  long  drear\  season,  comes  a  day 
Born  of  tiie  gentle  sout!.i,  and  clears  away 
From  the  sick  heavens  all  unseemly  stains. 
The  anxious  mouth,  relieved  fiom  its  pains, 
Takes  as  a  long-lost  right  the  feel  of  May, 
The  eyelids  with  the  ])assing  coolness  p-Ay, 
Like  rose-leaves  with  the  drip  of  summer  rains. 
And  calmest  thoughts  come  round  us  —  as,  of  leavei 
Budding,  —  fruit  ripening  in  stillness, —  autumn 
suns 
Smiling  at  eve  upon  the  quiet  sheaves,  — 
Sweet    Sappho's    cheek,  —  a    sleeping    infant's 
breath, — 
The   gradual   sand    that   through   an  Lour-glajs 
runs,  — 
A  woodland  rivulet, —  a  Poet's  death. 

Jan.  1817. 


832  POSTHUMOUS  fOEMS 

IV. 

WKITIEN  ON  THE  BLANK  SPACE  OF  A  LEAP 
AT  THE  END  OF  CHAUCEU'S  TALE  OF  "  THE 
FLOWRE  AND  THE  LEFE." 

Tins  pleas-ant  tale  is  like  a  little  copse  : 
The  honeyed  lines  so  ireshly  interlace, 
To  keep  the  reader  in* so  sweet  a  place, 
So  tliat  he  here  and  there  full-hearted  stops ; 
And  oftentimes  he  feels  the  devyy  drops 
Come  cool  and  suddenly  apainst  his. face, 
And,  by  the  wandering  melody,  may  trace 
Which  way  the  tender-leg;;ed  linnet  jiopa. 
Oil !  what  a  power  has  white  simplicity  ! 
What  mighty  power  has  this  gentle  story  1 
I,  that  do  ever  feel  athirst  for  glory. 
Could  at  this  moment  be  content  to  lie 

Meekly  upon  the  grass,  as  those  whose  sobbings 
Were  heard  of  none  beside  the  mournful  robins. 

f «6. 1817 

V. 

ON   THE   SEA. 

IT  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 
Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mightv  swell 
(iluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 
Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 
Often  'tis  In  such  gentle  temper  found, 
That  scarcely  wi-11  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  moved  for  days  from  where  it  sometime  feU, 
When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 
O  ye  !   who  have  your  eyeballs  vexed  and  tired. 

Feast  them  u})Oii  the  wideness  of  the  Sea ; 
O  ye  !  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  upi-oar  rude, 

Or  led  too  much  with  cloying  melody,  — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  ravern's  mouth,  and  brood 
L'lilil  ye  start,  as  if  the  sca-iiymphs  quired  t 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  338 

VI. 
ON  LEIGH  nuxra  poem,  tiik  "story  of 

RIMINI." 

1 17"H0  loves  to  peer  up  at  tlie  niorninjT  sun, 
f  f    Willi   lialf-sliut  eyes  and  foinfortable  cheek, 
I. ft  liim,  witli  this  sweet  tale,  Cull  often  seek 
For  meadows  where  tlie  little  rivers  run; 
Will)  loves  to  linger  with  that  brightest  one 

or  Heaven  —  lie.sperus —  let  him  lowly  speak 
These  numbers  to  the  night,  and  starlight  meek, 
Or  moon,  if  that  her  hunting  be  begun. 
He  who  knows  these  delights,  and  too  is  prone 

To  moralize  upon  a  smile  or  tear. 
Will  dnd  at  once  a  region  of  his  own, 

A  bower  for  his  spirit,  and  will  steer 
To  alleys,  where  the  fir-tree  drops  its  cone. 
Where  robins  hop,  and  fallen  leaves  are  sear. 
1817 

VII. 

WHEN  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen    has    glean'd    my    teeming 
brain, 
Before  higli-piled  books,  in  charact'ry. 

Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain  ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  lace, 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  higli  romance. 
And  think  that  1  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their  shadows,  wit.h  the  magic  hand  of  chance  , 
And  when  I  fee',  fair  creature  of  an  hour  I 

That  1  shall  never  look  u[>on  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  [)ower 

Of  unreflecting  love  !  —  then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  iiolhingness  do  sink. 

1817. 


434  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

VIII. 
TO   HOMER. 

STANDING  aloof  in  giant  ignorance, 
1^  Of  tliee  I  hear  and  of  the  Cyclades, 

As  one  who  sits  ashore  and  longs  perchance 

To  visit  dolphin-coral  in  deep  seas. 
So  thou  wast  blind  !  —  but  then  the  veil  was  rent, 

For  Jove  uncurtain'd  Heaven  to  let  thee  live, 
And  Neptune  made  for  thee  a  spermy  tent, 

And  Pan  made  sing  for  thee  bis  forest-hive; 
Aye,  on  the  shores  of  darkness  there  is  light, 

And  precipices  show  untrodden  green  ; 
There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight ; 

There  is  a  triple  sight  in  blindness  keen  : 
Such  seeing  hadst  thou,  as  it  once  befell 
To  Dian,  Queen  of  Earth,  and  Heaven,  and  Hell 

1818. 

IX. 

ANSWER   TO   A   80XNET    ENDING   THUS:  — 

"  Dark  eyes  are  dearer  far 
Than  those  that  made  the  hyacinthine  bell." 

By  J.  II.  Retnoids 

BLUE !  'Tis  the  life  of  heaven,  —  the  domain 
Of  Cynthia,  —  the  wide  palace  of  the  sun,— 
The  tent  of  Hesperus,  and  all  his  train,  — 
The  bosomer  of  clouds,  gold,  gray,  and  dun. 
Blue  !  'Tis  the  life  of  waters  —  ocean 

And  all  its  vassal  streams  :  pools  numberless 
May  I'ange,  and  foam,  and  fret,  but  never  can 

Subside,  if  not  to  dark-blue  nativeness. 
Blue!  Gentle  cousin  of  the  forest-green, 

Married  to  green  in  all  the  sweetest  flowers  — 
Forget-me-not,  —  the  blue-bell,  —  and,  that  queen 

Of  secrecy,  the  violet:  what  strange  powers 
Hast  thou,  as  a  more  shadow  !      But  how  great, 
When  in  an  Eye  thou  art  alive  with  fate  I 

Feb.  1818  , 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  tn 


TO    J.    n.    REYNOLDS. 

OTHAT  a  week  could  be  an  age,  and  wo 
Felt  parting  and  warm  nieetinjj  every  week; 
Then  one  poor  year  a  thousand  3ears  would  be, 
The  Hush  of  welcome  ever  on  tiie  cheek : 
So  could  we  live  lon<;  life  in  little  space, 

So  time  itself  would  be  annihilate, 
So  a  day's  journey  in  oblivious  haze 

To  serve  our  joys  would  lengthen  and  dilate. 

0  to  arrive  each  Monday  morn  from  Ind  ! 

To  land  each  Tuesday  from  the  rich  Levant  I 
In  little  time  a  host  of  joys  to  bind, 

And  keep  our  souls  in  one  eternal  pant  I 
Tliis  morn,  my  friend,  and  yester-evening  taaght 
Me  how  to  harbor  such  a  happy  thought 

XI. 

TO  .• 

rIME'S  sea  hath  been  five  years  at  its  low  ebb, 
Long  hours  have  to  and  fro  let  creep  the  sand, 
Since  I  was  tangled  in  thy  beauty's  web. 
And  snared  by  the  ungloving  of  thine  hand. 
And  j'et  I  never  look  on  midnight  sky, 

But  I  behold  thine  eyes*  well-memoried  light; 

1  cannot  look  upon  the  rose's  dye, 

But  to  thy  cheek  my  soul  doth  take  its  flight: 
I  cannot  look  on  any  budding  flower, 

But  my  fond  car,  in  fancy  at  thy  lips. 
And  hearkening  for  a  love-sound,  doth  devour 

Its   sweets   in    the    wrong    sense :  —  Thou    doel 
eclipse 
Every  delight  with  sweet  remembering. 
And  grief  unto  my  darling  joys  dost  bring. 

*  A  ladj  whom  he  saw  for  aome  momenta  at  Vausb*)! 


3.H6  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

XII. 

TO    SLEEP. 

OSOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight ! 
Shutting,  with  careful  fingers  and  benign, 
Our  !>looQi-pleased  eyes,  embovver'd  from  th« 
I'iglit, 
Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine ; 
O  sootliest  Sleep!  if  so  it  please  thee,  close, 

In  midst  of  tJiis  thine  Iiymn,  my  willing  eyes, 
Or  wait  tlie  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 
Around  uiy  bed  its  lulling  charities; 
Tlien  sa\  e  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes; 

Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  still  lords 
Its  strengfli,  for  darkness  burrowing  like  a  mole; 

Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 
And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 
1819. 

XIII. 

ON   FAME. 

FAME,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy 
To  (hose  who  woo  lier  witli  too  slavisli  knees, 
But  makes  surrender  to  some  thoughtless  boy, 
And  dotes  the  more  upon  a  heart  at  ease. 
She  is  a  Gipsey,  —  will  not  speak  to  those 

Who  have  not  learnt  to  be  content  without  her ; 
A  Jilt,  whose  ear  was  never  whisper'd  close, 

Who  thinks  they  scandal   her  who  talk   about 
her ; 
A  vi-ty  Clipsey  is  she,  Nihis-born, 

Sister-in-law  to  jealous  I'otiphar, 
Ye  lovesick  Bards  !  ri'pay  her  scorn  for  scorn  ; 

Ye  Artists  lovelorn  I  madmen  that  ye  are 
Make  your  best  bow  lu  her  and  bid  adieu, 
Then,  if  she  likes  it,  she  will  follow  you. 


POSTUUMOUS  POEMS.  337 

XIV. 
ON   FAMK. 
"  Ton  oaunot  aat  your  cake  and  have  it  too."  —  PrnvtrK 

HOW  fever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look 
U|)on  his  mortal  days  with  temperate  blood, 
Who  vexes  all  the  leaves  of  his  life's  book. 
And  robs  his  fair  name  of  its  maidenhood  : 
ft  is  as  if  the  rose  should  pluck  herself, 

Or  the  ripe  plum  finnjer  its  misty  bloom; 
As  if  a  Naiail,  like  a  meddlinjr  elf. 

Should  darken  her  pure  grot  with  muddy  gloom, 
But  the  rose  leaves  herself  upon  the  brier, 

For  winds  to  kiss  and  grateful  bees  to  feed. 
And  the  ripe  plum  still  wears  its  dim  attire, 
The  undisturbed  lake  has  crystal  space  : 
Why   then  should  man,   teasing   the   world    for 

grace, 
Spoil  his  salvation  for  a  fierce  miscreed  ? 

1819. 

XV. 

WHY  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?     No  voice  wiTl  tell ; 
No  God,  no  Demon  of  severe  response, 
DeigiM  to  rejjly  from  Heaven  or  from  Hell : 
Then  to  my  human  heart  I  turn  at  once. — 
Heart  I     Thou  and  I  are  here  sad  and  alone  ; 

I  say,  why  did  I  laugh  ?     O  nwsrtal  pain  ! 
O  Darkness  !  Darkness  !  ever  must  I  moan. 

To  question  Heaven  and  Hell  and  Heart  in  vain 
Why  did  I  laugh?     I  know  this  Beinii's  lease, 

My  fancy  to  its  utmost  blisses  spreads  ; 
Yet  would  I  on  this  very  midnight  cease. 

And  the  world's  gaudy  ensifjiis  see  in  shred?; 
Verse,  Fame,  and  Beauty  are  intense  indeed, 
But  Death  intenser  —  Death  is  Life's  hin;h  meed. 


S38  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

XVI. 

ON   A   DREAM. 

AS  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light, 
When   lulled     Argus,   baffled,   swoon'd    and 
slept, 
So  on  a  Delphic  reed,  my  idle  spright. 

So  play'd,  so  charm'd,  so  coiiquer'd,  so  bereft 
The  dragon-world  of  all  its  hundred  eyes, 

And  seeing  it  asleep,  so  fled  away. 
Not  to  pure  Ida  with  its  snow-cold  skies, 

Nor  unto  Tempe,  where  Jove  grieved  a  day, 
But  to  that  second  circle  of  sad  Hell, 

Where  in  the  gust,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  flaw 
Of  rain  and  hailstones,  lovers  need  not  tell 

Their  sorrows :  —  pale  were  the  sweet  lips  I  saw, 
Pale  were  the  lips  I  kiss'd,  and  fiir  the  form 
I  floated  with,  about  that  melancholy  storm. 

1819. 

XVII. 

IF  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be  chain'd, 
And,  like  Andromeda,  the  Sonnet  sweet 
Fetter'd,  in  spite  of  pained  loveliness. 
Let  us  find  out,  if  we  must  be  constrain'd. 
Sandals  more  interwoven  and  complete 
To  fit  the  naked  foot  of  poesy  ; 
Let  us  inspect  the  lyre,  and  weigh  the  stress 
Of  every  chord,  and  see  what  may  be  gain'd 

By  ear  industrious,  and  attention  meet ; 
Misers  of  sound  and  syllable,  no  less 
Than  Midas  of  his  coinage,  let  us  be 
Jealous  of  dead  leaves  in  the  bay-wreath  crown 
So,  if  we  may  not  let  the  Muse  be  free. 

She  will  be  bound  with  garlands  of  her  own. 

1819. 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS.  339 

XVIII. 

THE  day  is  pone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  pone  I 
Sweet  voice,  sweet  lips,  soft  band,  and  softer 
breast, 
Warm  breath,  Ijplit  whisper,  tender  semitone. 
Bright  eyes,  accomplisb'd  shape,  and  lanp'roiu 
waist! 
Faded  the  flower  and  all  its  budded  charms, 

Faded  the  sight  of  beauty  from  my  eyes, 
Faded  the  shape  of  beauty  from  my  arms. 

Faded  the  voice,  warmth,  whiteness,  paradise  I 
Vanish'd  unseasonably  at  shut  of  eve. 

When  the  dusk  holiday  — or  holinipht  — 
Of  fragrant-curtaiu'd  love  begins  to  weave 

The  woof  of  darkness  thick,  for  hid  delight: 
But,  as  I've  read  love's  missal  through  to-day, 
He'll  let  me  sleep,  seeing  I  fast  and  pray. 

181» 

XIX. 

I  CRY  your  mercy  —  pity —  love  —  ay,  love  ! 
Merciful  love  that  tantalizes  not, 
One-thoughted,  never-wandering,  guileless  love, 
Unmask'd,  and  being  seen  —  without  a  blot  1 
C  !  let  me  have  thee  whole,  —  all  —  all  —  be  mine  ' 

That  shape,  that  fairness,  that  sweet  minor  zest 
t)f  love,  your  kiss,  —  those  liands,  those  eyes  divine, 
That    warm,     white,    lucent,     million-pleasured 
breast,  — 
Yourself —  your  soul  —  in  pity  give  me  all, 

Withhold  no  atom's  atom,  or  I  die, 
Or  living  on  perhaps,  your  wretched  thrall. 

Forget,  in  the  mist  of  idle  misery, 
Life's  purposes  —  the  palate  of  my  mind 
Losing  its  gust,  and  my  ambition  blind  1 

181» 


840 


POSTHDMOUS  POEMS. 


XX. 

KEATS'S   LAST   SONXET. 

BRIGHT  star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  th«J« 
artl 
Not  m  lone  splendor  hunn;  aloft  the  night, 
And  watcliinnf,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 

Like  Nature's  patient  wleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  tlie  mountains  and  the  moors: 
No  —  3'et  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeab'e, 

Pillow'd  upon  m}  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell. 

Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest. 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever —  or  else  swoon  to  death.* 


Another  reading :  — 

llalf-pafsiooless,  and  bo  swoon  on  to  deatk. 


THE  END 


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